Meet the Recruits
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: Describing what led each charachter to join RED. Rated T for language, violence, gore and suggestive themes.
1. Scout

„Bill!"

A woman in her late fourties was stomping madly around the apartment located in the south of Boston, Massachusetts. She was wearing a pale red dress, cut just above the knees, and scarlet high heels, which gave out a loud clack every time she furiously stepped on the old, dusty floorboards.

"Bill!"

Her surprisingly youthful face had taken a strange expression, her eyebrows meeting in the middle almost entirely, and a small vein popping out in the middle of her forehead. Her cheeks were flushed and burning, as well as the chaos inside her brain, boiling and letting all the anger out of her system, only managing to be calm enough not to start breaking the furniture. Her lips were pressed together tightly, but opened up as wide as a cave on occasion, every time she let out a mad shriek, her tone stinging the air like a scorpion. As she did, another blue vein jumps out of her delicate neck. She would take exactly three steps towards the door to cool off, before repeating the process again.

"BILL!"

-"What?"

A young man was leaning on the small grey door. He was loosely holding an aluminum baseball bat in his right arm, lazily closing the door until they click with his left one. He looked at the woman standing in front of him, resembling an enraged bull. He scratched his short brown hair to prolong the silence, and flashed a smile just to irritate her.

-"Hey, Ma!" he said, flashing his slightly crooked teeth.

-"You've been playing baseball again."

The man looked at the baseball bat he held in his arm. He smirked.

-"What gave me away?"

-„Don't be a little smartass, Bill. If I told you once, I told you a thousand times."

Bill threw the bat in the air a bit, catching it in midair. It now stood up straight in his hand. He admired it for a moment. Such fine craftmansip, such delicate, yet brutal force.

-"Aw, come on, Ma! It's just a hobby. 'Sides, I might go pro some day. Ya never know."

His mother sighed. Sometimes, she just couldn't understand the stupidity of her son.

-"You quit college to do something worthwhile with your life…"

Bill groaned and tossed his head back. Not this conversation again! Not now, he just got home!

-"Baseball isn't going to help you in life, Bill!"

-"It helped me get into freakin' college! What more do ya want?"

-"Which you quit after a year. The entire scholarship… gone to waste."

The Bostonian started walking around the living room, trying to escape from this talk. This had been the fourth time they've had it this week. And it was only Thursday! He threw his bat on the old leather sofa, tattered a bit, but still surprisingly well kempt. An old cream rug covered the cold floor of the apartment, somehow making the room more homely. It was the room in which Bill and his brothers would sit around arguing, playing with their toys and watch cartoons on the big square television set, the biggest one in the neighborhood bought by his dad's alimony check, while Ma was in the kitchen, baking chocolate chip cookies. The room was covered in a thin layer of dust, which no one would quite get off no matter how hard they tried. A small cloud of dust lifted as the bat hit the sofa. Bill fell lifelessly in an old armchair, letting his arms fall to the side and touch the old coffee table next to it. On it stood a single cracked coffee cup, as old as the apartment. In fact, everything around him was old, and he hated it. And every day he spent in it, with his constantly nagging mother, he seemed to hate it slightly more. He still loved the smell of cocoa and the electric smell of the TV, he still loved his room, filled with his baseball trophies, and he still loved his Ma. However, in the end, there is just that much nagging and constant criticism anyone can take. He seemed to hear a lot of it during the past three months, since he left college. At first they had an impact on him, but now they were just white noise. Just like today.

"Okay, then," he said, uninterestedly;"lay it on me."

His mother pulled a small chair in front of him. She sat on it, slouching slightly. Her anger turned into melancholy, knowing that whatever she said would just fly past him. Still, she wouldn't consider herself a good mother unless she tried.

"I really think that you are just wasting your life away. Baseball won't help you in life."

Bill scoffed.

"Are you even listenin' to me? I. Won. A. Freakin'. Scholarship, godammit!"

-"You just got lucky. You had a chance to learn something that can help you in life! No one could make a living out of baseball alone!

-"Oh yeah? Mickey Mantle, Don Sutton, Tony Perez…"

-"All exceptions that prove a rule. You aren't ten years old anymore, Bill. You have to learn to use opportunities, and not rely on the one thing you're good at for everything in life…"  
-"Woah! One thing? Ma, unless you haven't noticed, I am good at pretty much everything!"

-"Oh, here we go again…"

Bill stood up, clutching his fists.

-"Right, here we go again." He began walking half nervously around the room, his mother sitting still.

"You know damn well that I may be the best son you evah had! I mean, Kyle is in jail, Steve went to Africa to get some Nigerian rhino hookers or summin, and, a-and no one else even attempted college."

-"Yet three of your brothers now make a few hundred a week." His mother didn't raise her voice. Bill, however, has."

-"Look, I give you credit for Dave, but Clark is a no-good cheating bastard, and Steve uses his car dealership as a cover for his brothel!"

-"But he treats the girls so nicely. He paid for Cookie's glasses, and Cinnamon's final year of film school. Hear that, Bill? Hookers manage to finish schools."

Bill threw his arms up.

"Okay, fine! Why are you so worked up over this? You didn't pay for anything! In fact, you never pay for anything!" He started ticking his head from side to side, over pronouncing the word "every""

"**Every** week, you get a big check, and **every** time, you say it's from my dad which I never met. And **every** time you get it, you spend it on **everything** you need, and then you put **everything** that's left in the bank. And then you get your money again. And then you complain about me wasting money which I got for my exquisite talent. And it's like that. **Every. Single. Day.** The thing is, you nevah worked a day in your life. And now you give me shit, because…"

-"Don't you take that tone with me, young man!" She pinched the base of her nose with her thumb and index finger. "I wish your father were here to stab some sense into you!"

And at that very moment, she had an idea.

"You know what? Just because I don't work, doesn't mean you shouldn't. You disappointed me, and now you're going to pay. Literally."

Bill looked puzzled. His mother leaned forward, looking straight at him.

"You are going to pay me your scholarship. 40.000 $ in cash." She leaned back. "I suggest you start looking for a job. With your current education, you should be able to pay me back at my funeral… Or at your funeral. Depending on how much time you take looking for it."

Bill couldn't believe it.

"Ma, you serious? Ma, I… I can't pay you back the money you never had to start with."

-"That cash was as good as mine. The moment you popped out of my vagina, all of your belongings became mine!" She stood up and walked in the kitchen. "I expect you to start paying up. Or else, you're out of this house."

* * *

Bill was in the tiny bathroom, brushing his teeth. The bathroom seemed smaller than before, even when he and his brothers were constantly pushing each other to get in. In fact, the whole apartment seemed smaller. His mother didn't say a word at dinner, even though he tried to talk her out of her ridiculous proposal. No matter how many times his mom yelled, punched, or punished his brothers and himself, he found her scariest when she made up her mind about something, and then stood her ground, not even considering compromise. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He seemed tired. His eyes couldn't focus on anything, and just stared blankly, without actually acknowledging anything. He didn't bother to wash out the toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. He thumped his head against the mirror. He couldn't understand that he was now in dept. He couldn't understand his Ma. The entire thing was confusing, mostly because he had no idea what the hell he was going to do next. He stood like that, listening to "Stand By Me" playing on the small bathroom radio above the bathtub. It soon stopped, and a friendly female voice came on.

_Are you looking for a fresh start? A place where your skills can become useful? Are you looking for a well-paid job?_

Bill twitched. What…what did she just say?

_Would you like to make your friends and family proud? Praise you for your accomplishments?_

Bill spat in the sink. "Yes…"

_Would you consider a career with flexible hours and a long vacation period?_

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, what about the money?" Bill shouted at the radio.

_Would you like to join our Mann Co. family?_

"HOW DO I GET THE MONEY YA DUMB BITCH?"

_Then join __the Reliable Excavation and Demolition__! Pick up the phone and dial 0800-444..._

Bill couldn't believe it. The answer to his prayers. Right before his very ears. It was like a dream come true.

_568..._

„Wait! Wait!" Bill shouted at the radio. He was looking for a pen, a piece of chalk, anything to write with... He went through the medicine cabinet, tossing around a few bottles of Valium and band-aids. He felt around the cupboard, then made his way to the drawer under the sink. He rummaged through the toothpaste and towels, cursing as he did. And there he saw it: a lipstick. Coral No. 2 lipstic his mother used. He opened it, and looked desperately for a clear surface. His gaze fell upon the mirror. The mirror! He started writing on it in quick, slightly smudged strokes. 0800-444... Shit.

_412- RED._ Bill wrote down the final digits, but failed to remember the middle three. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He knew miracles never happened to him.

_To join Builders League United, please dial..._

Bill listened carefully. Is this another corporation? The numbers are similar, but… wait a minute… they are identical!

…_444- 568-412- BLU._ Blu? The last one was Red. Maybe they were different branches or something. He looked at the dirty mirror, pleased by what he had done. But now he was facing a dilemma… Red or Blu? How different can they actually be? Builders… Reliable… Red was about demolition, right? So it's probably about construction? He didn't have much experience with it, so… But there was money involved, after all. Aw, screw it, demolition is fun! I'll go with Red! He ran to the kitchen and dialed the number on the phone, checking the number on the mirror seen behind the wide opened door. A woman picked up the phone. It was the same woman from the radio.

"_Hello! Are you interested in joining RED?"_

_-_"Umm… yeah… sure."

-_"Alright, Sir. Please state your name."_

-"Umm… Bill… Bill Morrison."

-_"Bill… Morrison…" _Bill could hear clicking on a typewriter. It went on for a while.

"_Congratulations, Sir! You're in our database."_ Database? What database? Suddenly, Bill wasn't so sure about this.-

"Does… does that mean I get the job?"

-_"That means we're going to run a small background check. We will alert you if we consider hiring you. Have a nice day, Sir."_

-"Wait… How… How much would I get paid?" The phone line went dead. At that moment, Bill thought that he had made a big mistake. A hundred questions ran through his head. How will he explain the lipstick on the mirror? Is the money worth this suspense? Who are these people? How would he even do this job?

Perfectly. He would do it perfectly because he is awesome and needs the money.

He fell asleep with that thought in mind. Strangely enough, he didn't remember getting into bed that night…

* * *

Bill woke up quite late that morning. As he always did. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. As he always did. He walked up to his dresser. As he always did. He opened the drawer, half blinded from his sleep. As he always did. Inside he found two guns, ammo, and a red shirt with dog tags on it, the word "Scout" written in broad letters. As he always…wait, what?

"What the…?" He looked around. As the sleep evaporated from his eyes, he noticed that he wasn't in his room. It was a grey room, filled with metal cupboards and a dozen first aid kits in the corner. His bed was against the wall, covered with a dark red sheet. There was a small mahogany study desk next to the drawer. On it was a baseball cap, sneakers, and a large white phone. He couldn't move for a while. Was he kidnapped? Kidnappers wouldn't put him in a room with guns, would they? But if he wasn't kidnapped, why was he here? Suddenly, he missed his apartment. He missed his mom. He turned as he heard the door knob turn. The door opened with a squeak. Outside there was a young lady, perhaps a few years older than him, holding a clip board.

„Good morning, Bill."

A pretty woman standing in a strange bedroom, wishing you good morning, could mean only one thing to any guy. However, Bill was never in this situation, so he had no idea what that thing meant. Her voice was familiar. He wanted to ask her so many questions, but could only manage to pronounce a few unlinked words.

„I, umm, hey...what...how, who... metal, Scout... umm... how much am I... hi."

Bill leaned casualy on his desk, only to fall awkwardly, for he has misinterpreted the height of it. The woman cleared her throat.

„I am...pleased..." she bit her lip for a moment, „to announce that we have decided to hire you at RED."

Bill was sitting on the floor, his mouth hanging on one side.

„Ha?"

The woman helped him up. She was wearing a short purple dress, and large glasses, much like elderly people have. Her short black hair was put up neatly in a bun. For some reason, Bill knew that he could trust her, for now. He smiled as he got back on his feet.

"I'm… I'm hired?"

-"Yes, Sir. We ran several tests, and you fall into the few exceptional candidates that we wanted to hire." Her eye twitched as she said that, but Bill didn't notice it.

-"Can I ask you's a question?

-"Of course."

-"Kay, umm… what exactly… would I be doing?"

The woman searched her mind for the appropriate words.

-"Weapon testing and various missions to expand our company territory." Bill stared at her.

-"Is this a military thing?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

-"Don't worry, Sir. This operation is perfectly safe."

-By safe, what do you…"

-"You won't die, Sir." That relaxed him. A little. Sort of.

-"But I will fight, rite?"

-"Yes, Sir. But everything is well planned out to ensure your safety. You see, Reliable Excavation and Demolition was first established by…" Bill put his hand up.

-"Yeah, yeah, yeah… I don't need to hear no history lecture. Still… this has nothing to do with excavation or building or stuff?"

-"Well, I wouldn't say that… but, it's mostly demolition in your case." Bill was not pleased with the situation.

-"Umm… I'm not sure if I want to take this job." The woman looked at him. She pulled out a check.

-"This would be your original salary. You would earn more with experience." Bill took the check in his small hands… and nearly fainted. So many zeros! He… he could pay off his Ma by the end of the week! There is no comma, is there? No. Just money. So much money! He forgot everything wrong with this situation. He could barely speak. And if it all goes well, he would have some money to spare. And, if it really was safe…

-"Of course, Sir… If you aren't sure about joining us…"

-"No!" He panicked; "I mean yes! I mean… well, shit! Just hire me, already!" The woman gave him a piece of paper to sign a few times. He was so excited he could barely hold a pencil.

"Congratulations." She saluted him. "You are now a class in The Team Fortress Operation."

-"Scout, is it?" Bill guessed. The woman smiled.

-"Yes, Sir. We have provided you with a uniform. Put it on and accompany me outside for further information."

* * *

The uniform wasn't really that bad. It was just something comfortable. Plain slacks, a T-shirt, a backpack for his weapons, dog tags and sneakers. He put on his black baseball cap and his earpiece. He went outside, where the woman, who finally presented herself as Miss Pauling, was waiting. She seemed a bit tired. She was hunting for candidates all day. She led Scout down a large hallway, echoing as they walked. She led him to a room marked "Resupply room" where his teammates were waiting.

-"So… how many of us are there?"

-"There will be seven other men in your team." She said, looking straight forward.

-"So, eight of us?"

-"Yes. Eight men." They walked in awkward silence. Scout remembered something else that he wanted to ask her.

-"What kinda tests did ya do on me?"

-"Physical and mental tests. You were exceptional in one category."

-"Oh, like what? Strength? Intelligence? Stamina?" He came up close to her, his voice taking a suggestive tone.

"Endurance?"

-"Speed." She said with a devilish smile. "You are the fastest."

Scout got a disappointed frown, but soon realized that they were talking about running, and not the other thing.

-"'Course I am." Miss Pauling realized that they were coming close to the room.

-"I'm sure you will fit in with the other guinea pigs just fine."

-"Guinea pigs?" Scout was irritated.

-"Candidates. I said candidates." Miss Pauling bit her bottom lip, an unconscious habit she had, which manifested itself whenever she lied.

"Well, here we are." The door was large and snowy white, bolted shut. Pauling put in a pass code, and the bolts came loose one by one, sounding like a beautiful mechanical symphony. She noticed that Scout was scared.

-"Don't worry, Bill. I'm sure you will be just fine." Scout smiled. Miss Pauling felt a sharp pain in her bottom lip.

* * *

He entered the room. Pauling suggested that he should fraternize with his teammates. He looked at them. A suited man smoking a cigarette. A man in a hardhat tuning his guitar. A drunk man, clinging to a bottle of Scrumpy like a small child clings to its security blanket. Scout didn't want to talk to them. Something else was on his mind. He saw a phone in the corner. He carefully walked past the men, and took out a couple of quarters. He dialed the phone, and he heard ringing. He phoned his Ma.

-"_H- Hello?"_ His mother answered. He knew that she was crying. Scout stood up stoically, with a poker face, so his teammates wouldn't know who he talked to.

-"Hey, It's me." She screamed so hard into the phone he had to pull his head away.

-_How dare you leave me without telling? How dare you run away! I was worried sick about you! How dare you!"_ Scout managed to get a sentence in edgewise.

"I got a job."

Silence.

-_"My baby is growing up. How did you find it?"_

-"Oh, I heard and ad on the radio and decided to check it out." He lowered his voice. "Sorry about the mirror."

_-"Oh, fuck the mirror, it'll wash right off. I'm so glad that you are OK! Listen, I may have overreacted. You can come home any time._

-"Actually, I'm coming home on Saturday to get my stuff. I signed a one year contract."

Silence.

-"Don't worry, I'll come back on weekends."

Silence.

_-"I was wrong, Bill. You are responsible. You are the greatest son a mother could have."_

_-_"Thanks." He tried to keep his voice calm, though he wanted to scream with pride.

-"_What will you be doing?"_

-"Mostly demolition."

_-"Construction, huh? Be careful, sweetheart."_

-"I will." _-"What does it pay, a hundred a week?"_ Scout smiled with smugness.

-"Higher."

_-"Two hundred?"_

_-_"Higher."

-_"Surely not 500?"_

-"Higheeeeeer…" His teammates gave him a look which he ignored.

-_"Wow. I… I think I have to sit down."_ His mom continued to ask him about the job, he answered her shortly and quickly.

"Yes. No. Eight. Six. RED. Yes. Yes. Pffft, no! Yes. OK. OK. Goodbye."

At the very end he bent closer to the wall and whispered; "I love you too, mommy." As he hung up, he prayed that no one had heard that. They did. The man smoking giggled like a silly schoolgirl. Scout pulled his hat over his face and walked to the other side of the room. He sat on a bench next to an Australian, cleaning a small jar with a rag.

"What are we waitin' for, anyway?" Scout asked.

-"You'll see…" The Aussie grinned before adding "momma's boy". Suddenly, a voice was heard from the speakers.

_Mission begins in 60 seconds…_

And Scout knew that something awesome was about to happen.


	2. Soldier

Disclaimer: This chapter sucks. Seriously.

* * *

It was around 13:00 p.m. when the RED team waddled back into resupply room, goaning and moving single file. The Medic stood behind them, healing them post battle, causing them even more pain. A bullet in the gut felt better than having Medic close it up, your skin growing back and burning as it did. If anything, it was faster. The team stuck with it, imagining what it must be like for the poor doctor, who couldn't heal himself, almost completely hacked up and forced to heal others. His teammates thanked him, but he needed no thanks. He just needed a medipack.

„There. That should be _alles_."

His beady eyes looked at the Soldier who came in before the others, and now stood looking cross, silently judging his teammates. The Medic noticed a gaping hole in his leg, wounded by an enemy Heavy. The hole seemed deep and was painful to look at, yet the Soldier paid no mind to it.

"Vould you like a quick heal, _Herr_ Soldier?" the Medic gestured to his ill condition.

"No thanks, Fritz. I'm fine on my own."

"_Na gut._" The Medic shrugged and walked up to the medicine cabinet. The team was sitting on a white bench, clutching their few unhealed wounds, that weren't life threatening, but were equally painful. Soldier looked at them in disgust. It was the first battle RED had with BLU. It was the first, and for most members hopefully the last, day of Payload season. Needless to say, it was a complete failure. Everyone was getting massacred and no one was pushing the cart. They have been on the field for six hours, pushing the cart slightly from each side. Near the end, each team was down to a single Heavy. They stood on each side of the cart, pushing it half an inch at a time, making it look like a game of retarded tug of war. The Administrator banged her head on the control board screaming at them.

"You had ONE job! ONE job!"

The RED Soldier was respawned for the third time today. He finally got past the nausea of being demolecularised, and put together in a matter of seconds like a billion piece puzzle. His head, however was pounding like there was a herd of ballet dancing elephants protruding his skull. And, yes, that is quite painful. And he will be damned if that happened again. He adjusted his helmet and ran to the battlefield. Much to his frustration, the cart wasn't moving. It was stuck in the middle between two overweight Russians. The BLU Spy was sapping a sentry nearby. It's the circle of sentries. Engie builds the sentry. Spy saps it. Pyro scorches Spy. The Pyro dies stupidly because of a sticky he accidentally stepped on. As the Demoman runs to push the cart, he gets killed by a freshly built sentry gun. Repeat.

And it was due to that repetitive process that neither team could win. The soldier picked up his rocket launcher. Not this time, crouton!

"Say hello to my little spy hating friend!"

As the rocket shot through the air, everyone could hear the atmosphere being ripped in two. It flew straight for the Spy, splitting everything in its path, until it blew the Frenchman into smithereens. The RED Engineer ran over to fix the sentry, laughing at the Spy, whose liver he was stepping in, as he crouched to band on it repeatedly with a wrench.

"Thanks, Sol!"

The Soldier muttered something and noticed another crisis. The Medic, who was in truly poor condition, ran around the field healing an unthankful Sniper. He is support, God damn it, what in America was he doing here?

The Sniper quickly made his way to the nearest sniping point, as if he read the Soldier's mind. However, the Medic now ran, defenseless. A RED Scout was running behind him, oddly not requesting Medic's help.

"Push the cart, you slacking maggot!"

Something was odd about this Scout. He could've sworn he just saw Scout running for his life, with barely any health left. It was never a good idea to put a boy on the team. Especially a boy who has never fought before. In his defense, this was the first mission both RED and BLU had. No one fought before like this. With maybe the possible exception of Soldiers and Spies. Spies…

The Soldier took out his shovel and ran to the confused Medic.

"Look out, Doc!"

He bashed the Frenchman mercilessly, and he immediately fell to the dusty ground. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he lost all consciousness. The last thing he did was groan at the blood staining his suit. His own blood. The Medic stared at the Soldier determined to win this battle. He had just saved his life, and he didn't know how to react to it.

"_Danke_" he mumbled not taking his eyes of the burly American wondering about how someone should thank someone after being saved.

"Sorry, I don't speak Nazi."

With that brief statement the instructed the Medic to step back, as he pointed his rocket launcher to the ground. He jumped and let the thing fire off. And soon, he was flying in midair, shouting with joy and wondering where the hell that Boston kid is when you need him.

Meanwhile in the control room, The Administrator rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She had a raging migraine, the kind she got from terrible candidates. She took a deep breath and instructed Pauling to get her a cup of coffee. Black. No cream and no sugar. The Administrator stared blankly onto the flashing screens, showing one laughable death after another. After six hours, watching them felt like hearing the same joke over and over again. Miss Pauling presented the Admin with her coffee.

"Pauling," she started after taking a short, loud sip and placing the cup on the control board; "Have I ever told you how much I hate recruitment season?"

"Yes, ma'm."

"Remind me to put a time limit on these missions. About ten minutes, or so." She took another sip, finishing the coffee and placing it on her chair's armrest. She then took out a thin, long cigarette and shoved it between her wrinkled lips. Miss Pauling ran to her quickly, taking a lighter out of her pocket and lighting the cig for her. A small puff of smoke filled the room as the Admin exhaled.

She looked at the RED Scout, hiding behind a building, in a fetal position, shivering. This was certainly not what he had expected. He was incredibly frightened. The Administrator looked at him as a dissapointment. She listened closely to get the feel of being in battle with them. She could hear bullets firing in the distance, but not what the members were saying. Maybe Engineer could fix the sound bug? Suddenly, her pupils widened, though not because of a caffeine rush, but because of surprise.

The RED Soldier fell from the sky, and landed in front of the Scout. The boy opened his mouth in shock, and the Admin knew that he was screaming. The Soldier rubbed his knee, which was injured from the sudden impact. He spoke to the scout. The Admin squinted at the slightly distorted picture. The Scout was shaking his head at the Soldier, who was probably persuading him to do something. The Soldier was already losing his patience. Suddenly, he pulled Scout by the collar and screamed something loudly in Scout's ear. Even the Administrator could hear some of it.

"_Are you going to…or are…? Now, go over there, and…! Got, that, you… MAGGOT?"_

The Scout rubbed his ears. His face then attained a devilish expression. He took his scattergun and ran off screen, laughing manically, as the Administrator supposed. After both of the characters were off screen, she switched to camera 47. Somehow, Soldier convinced the Pyro to start clearing the path for the cart. BLU Heavy's burning body lay lifelessly on the side of the track. The RED Heavy was still pushing the cart, but was now aided by the Scout, making the cart go forward for the first time in half an hour. The Soldier blew up any enemy that dared come in their way. It was as if he refused to die under any circumstance. Even after the respawned Heavy fired at his leg, making it difficult to walk, let alone fight, he still managed to blow his communist head off in a single perfect, shot. RED had a long way to go, but if they continued at this pace, they would be done by lunchtime. The Administrator was impressed.

"Miss Pauling," she said, her face forming an evil grin as she leaned forward, "have I ever told you how much I love recruitment season?"

"Yes, ma'm." Pauling bit her lip.

* * *

As the Administrator announced the RED's victory, everyone was overjoyed. Sadly, they were in such poor condition that their celebration was reduced to a hasty retreat to the resupply room, where they now sat, groaning and nursing their wounds. The Soldier, who was the only one standing, look at his team with a disapproving gaze. They… they were all maggots! Each and every one of them! He then knew it was his God given duty to train them.

"You all disgust me!" The Soldier marched in front of them.

"You are nothing but a pile of measly, America hating, communist, Nazi, snail eating, slacking, kangaroo screwing maggots!"

The Pyro laughed, its voice muffled by the optical mask.

"What are you laughing at, hippy?" spewed the Soldier.

Everyone went silent. Mostly because they wondered how the hell does Soldier know that Pyro is a hippy. During these six hours of fighting, that were mostly spent yelling at each other, they managed to figure out the classes, and nationalities of certain teammates due to their accents. Yet no one else dared to guess what that…thing…actually was. Truth be told, neither did Soldier, but he needed an insult. They sat in silence, waiting for another rant. Scout, however, was the first on to speak.

"Well, I dunno, guy. I mean… we were kinda good. We won, aftah all. The speaker lady said so, didn' she?"

"The only reason we won in the first place, was due to my immaculate battle strategy. You are a disgrace! You are a disgrace and you brought shame to America!"

The team didn't react to that.

"Now, now, Sol. The boy is onto somethin'. The BLU team actually ain't half bad for their first day. And if we managed to beat 'em…"

The Texan, unfortunately, didn't know that rationalizing with the Soldier is the last thing any man should do. Because, this was the point when the Soldier became really angry. His face tightened, somehow, making his neck look more vascular as he stretched it out. His face was red with rage, and to this day, Engie swore that he saw steam rushing out of Soldier's nose. He looked like an enraged bull, and his team was the wavy RED sheet. Not that color matters. The bulls tend to get irritated by the mere motion. And the Soldier was irritated by their mere existence. His yell was ear numbingly loud, and he didn't seem to breathe at all.

"Just because BLU is shit, it doesn't give you an excuse to be slightly better shit! In all my life I have never seen a team so miserable, so unnecessary, so utterly repulsive! You make me sick you maggots!"

His teammates went quiet, some even bowing their heads down in shame. The Spy was the only one not paying any attention to Soldier's rant. Instead, he examined the stain on his suit. He wasn't sure whose blood that was, but it will be a pain to take it out. Maybe he could kill himself and respawn with a clean suit. It would be nauseating, but it would be worth it. This is a thousand dollar suit, after all. Oh, God, is that idiot still talking?

The Soldier wasn't talking anymore. He now just stared at them with a piercing gaze, staring deep into their souls. It made each team member feel vulnerable and even Spy felt slightly uncomfortable. Their patriotic colleague then stepped back, not taking their eyes off them.

"Calling yourselves 'privates'…" he mocked them. He suddenly put his head down, looking at his crotch. He then started fidgeting around the belt area.

"_These _are privates!"

At that moment the entire team turned their heads, covering their eyes to protect their fragile sanity. Nobody needed to see that, they thought. Of all the things the Soldier could do… They all had their eyes shut tightly, not even letting a speck of light in. However, they could hear the Soldier's manly voice.

"You will never be these privates!"

At that very moment, Scout thought of an insult. It was so devilishly good, he had to say it. It wasn't appropriate at this very moment, but all the better.

"Well, Spoi's halfway there, 'cuz he's ahready a dick."

He felt like giving himself a round of applause, right there. Every ten year old in the universe would be proud. Spy seemed unmoved by this. He cleared his throat and made a remark, good enough for a twelve year old.

"At leest I 'ave a dick, you inconceivable, imbecile, rainbow fearing Bostonian."

"You see, French, dis is wah people ain't liking you that much. You see dat? Wah you ahways gotta be such a two-faced, backstabbin' joik?"

"Why don't you go complain about eet to your whore mothzer?"

The Scout turned red. If there was one thing he didn't let people talk about, it was his mother. His mother was a freakin' saint, how dare he? He clutched his fists, and was prepared for a big team kill."

"Oh, it is on!"

He tried rushing to the Spy, shoving Medic and Sniper along the way. They screamed in protest, but Scout didn't mind. He barely made it to the Spy, who was grinning with pleasure. Suddenly, to his utter horror, he realized that his eyes were open. And what he saw was…was…

Pretty unexpected.

"Ey look, goise, he ain't got his thing out!"

The team skeptically looked up to the Soldier. The boy was right. The Soldier was holding a photo of him with two of his army buddies, drinking on the border of Poland. He was in the middle, toasting the mustached man on his right, while the man on the left laughed at something, his head turned back and his mouth wide open. His army buddies. His _privates_.

The team went "oooooh" in realization and relief.

The Soldier turned the photo over to him. His voice became quieter. He had cooled off, but he seemed sadder than before. A nostalgic wave was running over him.

"You will never be these privates." He said to his team, but focusing his eyes on the old tattered picture. The team was quiet again. The Sniper and the Medic didn't move from the cold floor after being pushed down by Scout. The Sniper leaned over to the Medic, resting his elbows on the cold white tiles.

"Oi think it's kinda peculia' 'ow the Scout bloke looked at it first, roite?"

The Scout ignored this remark, while the German chuckled. Flipping him off quietly is the closest thing Bill could do, as he hasn't been to keen on ignoring remarks altogether. Still, he looked up at the mute Soldier, deep in thought.

Yes, Solly remembered his buddies quite well. Colonel Tom Mustard and Sergeant Albert Pepper. The best men he could find for his Nazi killing spree circa 1947. He didn't think about them in a while. Not before he found out that they had died, not more than two days ago. And their death was one of the reasons he joined RED.

* * *

"So, how exactly did they die?" asked Merasmus the Magician, while sweeping the floor of Soldier's and his dusty apartment. John Doe was sitting on the small dining room chair in his underwear, reading the fine print of Pepper's last will and testament, looking for something else he might have left him. He adjusted his helmet so he could read the small black letters.

"Merasmus, do you know those signs saying to keep your hands and feet inside the rollercoaster at all times?"

"Perhaps." The magician swept some of the dust under the aged rug the Soldier confiscated in Poland circa 1949.

"Well they got stabbed by a mugger right in front of it. Quick death. At least they died together. God bless 'em." John saluted the heavens.

Merasmus admired his fine work and corrected the positioning of the two fish heads hanging on his belt. He was a very old magician, but still had the strength to do chores his useless roommate couldn't. He focused his gaze upon the pile of dirty dishes accumulating around the kitchen/dining room/living room sink. It's usually John's job to clean them, but today, Merasmus kept quiet. He took out a vial of snake blood and three beads from his navy blue ritual robe. He popped the cap open and drank the blood, tossing the beads into the sink with one swift movement. John didn't mind the aquamarine beads whooshing over his head. Merasmus then spoke some voodoo gobbledygook, and soon, the dishes started washing themselves in mid air. As the beads clanged against the cheap plates, Merasmus inspected his hat; an Ox's skull which cost him quite a pretty penny at a garage sale in Oregon. He might have to polish it soon.

"How come they didn't invite you?"

"What?" The burly American screamed at him, dropping his helmet over his eyes.

"Well, what were they doing in the amusement park without you?"

"If my best army buddies want to go somewhere without me, that is their concern. I will not be mad at them." He inspected the will once more, and, again, found that all they left him was a golden bullet and a dozen K-type army rations.

"Communist doo-doo heads." he muttered.

"Ah!" Merasmus screeched upon realizing that the trash bin is overfilled. "I know that you are sad and all, but would it kill ya to take out the trash?"

John got up, but was still deep in thought. As deep in thought as John Doe could ever possibly be. He walked up to the bin, rummaging through the mostly papery contents of it. Many maggots have tried to shove silly advertisements down their throats. John would usually strangle the delivery boy, but the papers would remain. Still, occasionally, a bill would appear that they had to pay. The last time they didn't, the water was shut down for a month. Can you imagine living with a 300 year old magician who didn't shower? John couldn't take that chance again. So he pulled out about thirty sheets of paper and inspected them thoroughly, while talking to Merasmus, who sat on the floor, eating tomato soup from a can with his fingers.

"Still, we had fun, Pepper, Mustard and I. When we finally found Poland, that is…Water bill…It has been the best time of our lives. Fighting during the day, eating in the evening, and then visiting a few whore houses. Did you know those ladies don't shave? Their backs, I mean?" he shuddered;"That was un-American. Anyway…Take-out menu…There's not a day that goes by without me thinking about those glorious bastards…Heating bill…How I desperately miss the smell of blood and terror. How I miss the…Boobs and Ammo Monthly…I miss the thrill of fighting, you know? I think I should fight again, I really do. It would help me forget." He bobbed his head down.

"It would help." He stared sadly at the floor boards, when he noticed something interesting. It was a leaflet. On it was a woman dressed in a purple suit. She seemed quite old. Her thin, bony finger seemed to be pointing straight at the Soldier. I WANT YOU. Was written above her in bold red letters, and under her, there stood: TO JOIN RED. MAKE AMERICA PROUD.

John grinned. This was a very…convenient… surprise.

"Merasmus!" he exclaimed, making the poor magician spill cold soup over his robe; "I am going to war! Lock the house when I leave!"

He then ran to his bedroom, possibly to get dressed, humming The Ride of the Valkyries.

"It's about fucking time." commented Merasmus, and went to his bedroom/bathroom to clean himself off.

* * *

The Team Fortress Organization isn't that terrible at recruiting. They come at about seven p.m. to pick you up. They put you in a car and offer you a beverage. When you get there, the people from test your physical and mental abilities with a plethora of tests, starting with an IQ test, and ending in a cardio test, which involves a candidate to run on a treadmill strapped to the ceiling for twenty minutes. They only pick exceptional candidates. If you don't qualify, they erase your memory and bring you back home. If you are exceptional, they erase your memory and bring you to the base. Either way, you will have a bright light flashed before your eyes, leaving you to wake up about six hours later in either your house, or your sleeping quarters in the base, with a slight headache. The interesting thing about John Doe, is that he is the only one to remember his tests. This is due to the fact that, initially, he wasn't supposed to be chosen.

Two men in white overcoats and goggles dotting down their analysis on a table clipped on their clipboards was a daily scene during recruitment season. John Doe stood in front of them in a grey sweat suit, feeling dizzy from spending the last five hours of multiple choice tests, target practice, martial arts and synchronized swimming. A few suckers were stuck to his face, connecting him to the heart rate monitors. He managed to get most of them off, but still struggled with the ones on the back of his head. The two doctors exchanged concerned looks.

"How did I do, Docs?" asked John in the matter of a young child.

Doctor Laszlo gave John a white sterile rag to wipe his sweat off. He jolted his ballpoint against the paper a couple of times before he sighed with slight disappointment.

"What do you make of this, doctor Stein?" he asked in a strong Alaskan accent.

"Hmm…" Stein examined the sheet of paper before turning to John. He proceeded to talk in his nasal voice, emphasizing each syllable.

"Mister Doe, these tests that we ran all show that you are quite a capable man."

"Thanks, Doc." John tossed the rag aside, carelessly.

"However," Laszlo continued, "your intelligence is slightly sub-par. And your physical abilities, regardless of how formidable they might be, are unimposing."

"Eh?" John pulled a frown over his face. He couldn't understand what he had just heard, but he knew it wasn't good.

"Sadly, we hire only exceptional candidates. You are, in layman's terms, a jack of all trades. However, to join us, you need to be a master of at least one." His grey eyes went back to Doctor Stein. He nodded to him. John seemed puzzled as he watched the doctor walk away.

"So… am I hired?" Doctor Laszlo shook his head, clicking his tongue.

"I am very sorry, mister Doe." Doctor Stein appeared with a small black lamp and pointed it at John.

"I will need you to open your eyes." The doctors adjusted their goggles.

At that moment, John Doe realized something. This was probably his last chance to accomplish anything. If he died right there on the spot, the only thing he would leave behind would be some canned soup and an annoying roommate. No. He wouldn't let that happen to him. He wanted to be a hero once again. He wasn't treated like a guinea pig for hours just to forget everything. He pulled out the last sucker from his head and pushed Laszlo to the ground. He yelled in pain. John grabbed his dark tinted goggles from his head, tussling Laszlo's blonde hair and pulling his nose upwards, until he looked like a squealing pig. Before Doctor Stein could realize what was going on, John jumped up in the air and kicked him in the head, breaking his nose in the process. The tiny lamp flew into the sky. John lifted his arm up to catch it, when Doctor Stein pulled his sleeve, holding his bleeding nose with his other hand. John loosely put on Laszlo's protective goggles over his eyes and pressed the small red button on the lamp. The safety glasses were completely safe, but John closed his eyes, just in case, as the bright light lit up the laboratory. He then ran off to the exit, leaving the two doctors to lay on the floor, confused and bruised. He then took off the goggles, and tossed the lamp behind him. It humorously hit Doctor Stein on the head and bounced off, thankfully not going off again. Stein murmured something before he passed out.

"We are so fired."

John ran as fast as his legs could carry him down the hall. He was surprised at how little security this building had. He didn't know that he, and his future teammates, would later become the actual security. Suddenly, he saw a large door. It was painted purple, with the words "The Administrator" written on it in gold. He began to run faster, pressing his arms against his body to embrace for the sudden impact. In about a second, his massive body smashed the wooden door, landing on the floor. He got up and wiped off his bleeding lip, spewing out a couple of splinters. He propped himself up and barely managed to make a step forward. In front of him was a mahogany desk. The woman from the flyer was sitting at it, using her coffee cup as an ashtray. A younger woman with big glasses stood behind her. She looked frightened, but the older woman, with the big white cloud of hair surrounding her wrinkly face, just seemed mad.

"What is the meaning of this?" she spewed.

"Are you the woman in charge of this?" John ignored her question.

"I am." She said, sucking on her cigarette.

"I'll call security." Said the younger woman, slowly making her way to the phone on the other side of the room. John didn't try to stop her.

"I want to be on the team." he said simply. The older woman lifted her eyebrow. She put her elbows on her desk, scanning him with her eyes.

"Pauling," she addressed the young woman; "don't call security just yet."

Pauling obeyed, though she wasn't happy about it.

The old hag picked up a stack of papers from her desk and browsed them. When she found the one she was looking for, she read it carefully, ticking the ashes of her cigarette into her cup.

"Mr. Doe." she spoke.

"You were rejected as our candidate."

"With all due respect, madam, those doctors don't know shit! I am the best candidate for the whatever job I applied for."  
"Do you even know what this job is about?"

"Serving America. And what better way to serve America then to fight! So, madam, I came here because I want to fight!"

"How do you even know this job requires fighting?" she questioned.

"Every job requires fighting!" Mr. Doe was determined.

"Whenever there is a hippy on the loose, I personally bash his face in. That is fighting for decency! Whenever there is a job to apply for, men fight for it. That is a fight for survival! Whenever fighting is sure to result in victory, then we must fight! That is a fight for… victory!"

The Administrator stared at him blankly.

"Are you saying our "tests" didn't give us out?"

John looked confused. The Administrator leaned back in her chair.

"Mr. Doe. I assure you that you are the stupidest person I have ever met in my entire life. I doubt there is a person denser than you on the entire planet."

She stared at him for a brief second.

"You're hired."

"What?" Pauling and John shouted in unison.

"I have a hunch." the Administrator explained while lighting her cigarette.

"Thank you ma'm. Now, about my conditions…"

"The Administrator almost choked on her cancer stick.

"Conditions, Mr. Doe?"

"I require a raised salary for being unnecessarily rejected by those idiots you call the medical staff."

"You will get a decreased salary for destruction of private property." she rebutted.

"Well then… I require a suit of armor."

"You will get the helmet you came in here with."

John was losing his patience.

"Well then I…I…" He suddenly spotted something. Something so beautifully primitive that she had to comply.

"I want that shovel!"

The Admin looked at the shovel. It was dropped there by the former Soldier. It was old and beginning to rust. She had no idea what it was doing there, but she remembered using it to dig up a shallow grave for her last assistant after giving her sweetened coffee. She almost laughed at her own senility. She would, actually, if she were capable of laughing.

"That shovel? That shovel is an important memorabilia."

"That is my condition and I stand by it." John crossed his arms tightly.

"You can have it if we cut 200 dollars off your weekly salary."

"How about a 100?"

"Two hundred."

"150?"

"Two hundred."

"Two hundred?"

"Two hundred."

"Three hundred and that's my final offer!"

"Done." The Admin said, huffing her cigarette.

And that is how the Soldier got his 15600$ shovel. He happily slid out the gaping hole in the door, leaving Pauling and The Administrator alone. The Admin looked at Pauling's frightened expression.

"You question my judgment."

"No, ma'm!" insisted Pauling; "I think you know exactly what you're doing!"

"You don't think I was right, hiring him like that?"

"No, no, no! You know what's best for the company." Pauling turned beet red.

"You're lying."

"Absolutely not! I agree with you and I respect your decision m…m…ma'm."

The Admin leaned forward in her chair.

"Pauling…" she raised her eyebrows at her young assistant.

"Your lip is bleeding."

* * *

Soldier returned to reality. He has been on the team for one day, and already they had one win. The resupply room emptied out while he was reminiscing. He sat on the white bench with a loud sigh. He looked at the picture one final time. God, were they happy back then. He felt a strange sense of melancholy clouding over him, so he didn't even notice the Engineer leaving a few of his tools. This was supposed to make things easier, but maybe it took more time than a day. Either way, those glorious privates of his were now shooting Nazis in heaven. If heaven has Nazis. Of course it has, but they're used for target practice. He saluted the sky once more. Meanwhile, the Engie looked at him, thinking about the irony of this situation. The Soldier, who joined to connect with the things dear and familiar to him, on the same team as the Engie, who joined RED to get away from things dear and familiar to him.

What strange irony…


	3. Engineer: The Call

**Not a disclaimer: **This chapter turned out to be longer than I originally thought. For your sanity, I have cut it into two chapters. So...yeah.

* * *

Bee Cave, Texas has always been considered an idyllic family-friendly little town in the great American south. That was the place where all family members (except the teenage sons and daughters) would feel at home. And if that lovely little place would be their actual home, all the better. Families there lived the American suburban dream, sheltered from the outside urban world with the immaculate white picket fences around their houses. The older children, however, often left their suburban paradise in search of greener, more technologically advanced pastures. It was a shame that only a few of them would return to their loving families, since most kids there, past the age of twelve, found the Cave quite boring. It was simply too small for their broad adolescent minds. In reality, Bee Cave was about the size of roughly seven Vaticans, but without the pope. Even the best known household around, the Conagher household, had their eldest daughter leave them to study abroad. It was easier for them, though, because they knew that she would return to Bee Cave, like her father did. Her father, Dell Conagher, also had a chance to leave when he was her age, when he went to California to study. He returned eventually, with eleven PhDs in hard science, making his friends, family and neighbors gawk at him in awe, their high school diplomas looking like trash in comparison. Still, simple minded Dell didn't let that go to his head. He still enjoyed the neighborhood barbecues, shooting aluminum cans with his dad in the desert, and solving Rubik's cubes while watching _The Dick Van Dyke Show_ with his sweetheart, Irene, who he met at a hootenanny, and his eleven year old daughter, which left for Boston seven years later. Little has changed by the time 1968 had arrived, except for the new baby girl in their family, lovingly named Sarah, after Irene's grandmother. She was six years old when her sister left earlier this year, leaving the family feel incomplete. Sarah wrote her big sis a letter every week since then. She has written her 22 letters by August 20th, the day Dell got an important call from The Team Fortress Organization.

The rooster alarm clock went off at exactly seven a.m. It screeched annoyingly, loud enough to wake up the whole neighborhood. Dell popped his head out from under the covers, staring at the rooster's head rocking from side to side. He reluctantly stretched his arm out to shut it off, feeling the rays of the morning sun fall on his sleepy face. There is nothing he liked better than being woken up by the soft Texan sunlight aided by the birds chirping nearby. He clumsily felt around the annoying alarm clock, until he finally pressed the snooze button. He then turned on his back with a loud groan while dropping his heavy arm on the empty mattress space next to him. Dell lazily looked at it and realized that his wife had woken up. Her tussled up pillow smelled like the lavender face cream she rubbed on every night. The tan sheets were lightly rustled, because she was an extremely sound sleeper, and always woke up in the same position she fell asleep in. Dell propped himself up on his arms and sat on the bed. That day was the tenth anniversary of his employment on the oilfield west of Texas, where he worked as a motorman. He rubbed his wrinkled face thinking about how long it has been. Ten years ago, he was a naïve young man, with beautiful silky hair, a lot of spirit and at the height of his prime. And now… he was still all that, he thought jokingly, but with a two story house and an amazing family. Suddenly, he felt something. It was a delightful smell coming from the kitchen. Pans clattered and eggs cracked open, Sarah was eating her oatmeal and talking to Irene about a new toy whose commercial she saw on TV. The morning concerto of the Conagher family. Dell smiled at the thought of Irene making his favorite meal. It was seven in the morning, it was a beautiful day outside, and his amazing, sexy wife was...  
"Makin' bacon."

The Texan practically flew down the flight of stairs leading into the kitchen. He grasped the stair handle, admiring the quite modern kitchen. He had repaired, upgraded, or even built every appliance in it. Right now, his wife was cooking on a custom made fireproof pan, which never let her burn food, while Sarah was sitting on a self adjusting chair, which made her reach the tall kitchen counter where she ate her breakfast. Dell was proud of pretty much everything he had built, weather it was an engine pushing down the 12 ton oil drill down at the rig, or the automatic door in his wife's car. His wife now looked up from the pan and smiled at her husband, who stared at the sizzling bacon like a starving child.

"Come on down, honey, breakfast will be ready in a minute." She said in her strong Texan accent.

"Allrightie, then." Dell ran down the stairs, guided by the smell of meaty goodness.

"Mornin', daddy!" greeted Sarah, waving to her dad.

"Hey there, kiddo!" he tussled her soft hair, braided into two pigtails. Dell could never understand how his wife managed to get everything done by the time he barely got out of bed. He might have been a scientist, but he could never figure it out.

"How are my two favorite girls today?" he asked, rubbing his hands together.

"I would say I'm fine, but you're probably talkin' to the bacon."  
His wife presented him with a plate stuffed with bacon strips, a piece of toast and two eggs, sunny side up. Saying he ate half of it in a millisecond would be an understatement.

"What about Pepper, daddy? Is she your favorite?" cooed the seven-year-old.

Dell managed to speak with his mouth stuffed with bacon.

"I was talking about Pepper."

"No you didn't! You were talkin' about me!"

"Oh yeah?" Dell swallowed, "How can you be so sure?"

Sarah leaned over to him and batted her little Bambi eyes.

"I'm younger and cuter. And you like me best, so that's final."

Dell laughed wholeheartedly at the little girl crossing her arms and leaning on her chair as she closed her argument. He let out a couple of loud wheezes and wiped off a tear from his right eye as he finished with a loud sigh.

"I don't know how you got so arrogant, lil' missie," he said stroking her head, "but as long as you are, stay like that. It'll help you later in life."

"Dell, don't tell her that!" Irene turned from the kitchen sink, watching her husband stick a strip of bacon in his mouth.

"Whabt? It's tha throoth."

"Oh, for the love of Pete, can you please swallow before you speak?"

Dell did as he was told.

"Sorry, darlin'." Dell looked at Sarah, who had hopped off her chair, not waiting for it to lower her to the ground. She ran to the door explaining to her parents where she was going in one long, unpunctuated sentence.

"I'm off to ride my bike with Janice her mom said I could I'll come home in one hour love you!"

Dell smiled as she ran through the door and onto the green front lawn, where her friend waited for her, parking her bicycle on the sidewalk. He stood up after scooping up the bacon grease with the last bit of toast, going up to his wife elbow deep in dirty dishes and liquid detergent.

"Would ya like me to pack you up something before work? You get mighty hungry down at the rig."

"I'm not really that interested in talkin' 'bout food right now." He said, grabbing her by the waist.

"Dell!" she said in surprise. She tried to concentrate on the dishes while he kissed her neck, and it was getting increasingly difficult. "Dell, you can't! You have to get to work in an hour!"

"Eh. I can be late."

He continued to kiss her tender neck while she giggled.

"Dell, knock it off, I have a lot of work to do."

"Yeah you do!" he chirped enthusiastically.

"Seriously, Dell, stop it." She turned around and pushed him off herself lightly. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she tapped him with both of her sudsy hands before he backed away. He looked at her with a slightly disappointed smile.

"OK. Fine. Whatever you say." He raised his hands hopelessly and backed away. Irene bowed her head down.

"I'm sorry Dell, but I really have a lot to do this morning." She then looked back up, batting her long eyelashes. "Maybe…tonight? After dinner?" Dell sighed.

"Alright. But you better stick to your promise, missy." He playfully smacked her rump, making her squeal like a potbelly pig.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" she exclaimed and started rummaging through a few papers near the kitchen stove. She pulled out one freshly delivered letter, addressed to Conagher, Green Lane 6, Bee Cave, Texas. The information was written by the only person in their family who could write in cursive. She wrote it with a green pen.

"Is that from Pepper?" Dell asked. Irene smiled and nodded at him.

"Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Of course!" Dell took out an apple from the fruit basket in the dining room, and brought it to the sink to wash it. Irene cleaned off her soapy hand against her apron, clearing her throat as she was about to read her daughter's neat handwriting. She started reading while Dell put the apple in a brown paper bag, and started making a sandwich from the leftover bacon for his packed lunch.

"Ahem… _Dear Mom and Dad. I am having a great time at film school. The camera Dad got me is serving me well. So well, in fact, that I have been sent to Australia to make a film with it, as my final project for this school year."_

"She what?!" Dell almost spilled the contents of his lunch.

"I… she says that she is making a documentary." Irene read the letter nervously.

"A documentary on what?"

"I'm not sure. Something in Australia." Dell looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

"It must be about that big rock or something."

"Are you sure?" Irene looked puzzled.

"Well, what in darn hell else is there?" Dell looked up at his wife. She was deep in thought, her mind going in the worst possible place.

"What else did she write?" Dell asked to lighten the mood.

"Oh… _Sarah wrote me such beautiful letters, please tell her thank you. I assure you I will return to Bee Cave safely, and nothing will happen to the camera. Say hi to all the folks back at home for me. Tell Mom not to worry, this was mandatory for all students. Some even went to Canada. I'm glad I'm not one of them. Besides, I will only be there for about three weeks. My only worry is the documentary. Hope you guys are alright. Love, Pepper."_

Irene smiled as she read the letter. Their little girl was growing up. Only 18, yet she seemed so grown up. Dell went up to her and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"She's alright, Irene. Relax." He put his arm around her lovingly. Irene looked up at him with her big brown eyes.

"I hope you're right."

* * *

About one hour later, Dell was on the oil rig. It was roughly a forty minute drive west of Bee Cave. He arrived there on a hot summer morning, driving in his crimson truck. He parked it in a wasteland he called his workplace. He opened the door and jumped out. Nothing has really changed in the last ten years. The sand flew in his face, pinching his eyes. He didn't mind it; when you work here, sand in your eye is one of the better things that can happen to you. Three more trucks were parked near his. A few of his fellow roughnecks were leaning on them, drinking ice cold beer. The sun shined on the steely construction in the middle of the drill site. That was the drill he maintained every day, and it ran smooth as gravy. Barely a couple of yards from it were a couple of barrels, all black and cylindrical. This was the mud tank system, used for sorting the excavated mud. Oiling was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it. Luckily, the drilling team was a very good one. Not a single mishap has occurred since 1963. There were no casualties, and the leak was fixed quickly, but Dell had to spend three weeks without his eyebrows. That's when they presented a rule, banning smoking on the workplace. One would think common sense would stop them from smoking in the first place. Dell never quite forgot the smell of his burned forehead. He still flinches when Irene makes smoked ham for dinner. The first one to greet Dell was Mikey. Mikey was a floorhand, the worker at the bottom of the food chain. He did menial tasks and only got recognition from Dell. This was because they were doing very similar jobs, though Dell had a different salary.

"Dell! Good to see ya, 'ow you been?"

"Not too bad. You can cut back on the enthusiasm, kid."

"Sorry." Mikey tossed his curly red hair, a potential safety hazard everyone made fun of. "It's just that, all the other fellers here are boring as heck. All they do is sit around and drink their beers and stuff." Dell smiled at Mikey's childlike comments. He noticed him lean to the side, looking at the guitar Dell brought in the back seat of his truck.

"Oh!" Mikey jumped. "It's your ten years today, ain't it?"

"That long?" Dell sighed. "I must be getting old."

"Naw! You're just more experienced." He turned to the grumpy men behind him. "Hey! Dell's here!" As soon as he said that, all the men started walking up to Dell, extremely slowly; as that was the best a Texan could do to show extreme excitement. All men were wearing goggles and hardhats, just like Dell. They shook hands with him, congratulating his anniversary.

"Aw, heck, guys. I didn't expect such a big deal outta this."

"Are you kidding?" A tall man took a swig of his beer. "No one else survived ten years here! You are the God darn superengie!"

Dell didn't exactly know what he had meant by that, but he liked the ring that word had. Superengie.

"So, what do we do to celebrate? Can I get you a cold one?" asked Lisa, the laundrywoman, the only woman working on the rig. She was in charge of cleaning the greasy clothes of the other workers, and was also the rustabout, cleaning the rig if Mikey was one of his exhaust fume comas. She was given the "woman jobs", though in reality her immaculate handy work kept the whole business going.

"No, thanks. I reckon' I'll just get through with work today and then I'll go home."

"Work? Hah! You won't work! Nobody's workin' on the big 10! Mikey!" A burly man putting on his protective gloves called out to the young man, looking happily at the acoustic guitar in Dell's truck.

"What?" he responded.

"You do Dell's job today!"

"I can't let the boy do that!" Dell protested.

"Well then, you can…uh… monitor him." The group nodded their heads in agreement. Normally, Dell would object. But since the man was his boss and the main driller, he had to comply.

"Fine." Dell sighed. "Come on, Mikey!"

* * *

As the drill finally stopped running, the deafening noise slowly fading, Mikey and Dell jumped down to the engine room. There were no malfunctions today. The only thing that had to be done today was to clean up any of the mould and dust that could interfere with the delicate mechanical equipment. While his team was drilling, Dell was on standby, eating his apple while the rest of them worked. As the team was going to their trucks for their well deserved break, Dell went to the engine room, Mikey hopping behind him. He was exhausted, but, being the low life of the rig, he has been used to heavy labor. He opened one of the tanks and looked at the control board in them. He had no idea what any of those buttons did, but he did notice a couple of screws coming loose. He inspected the engine closely, as Dell stood behind him with his arms crossed, resisting the urge to push him aside and work.

"If there is anything I can do to help you, I'd be more than happy to." Dell said. Mikey's eyes widened.

"Really? Well… I _could_ use a screwdriver…" Dell fetched it for him from his toolbox with the speed of light. Mikey continued to work. He may not have 11 PhDs, but he did have the heart and stomach of a great worker. And that is why Dell was glad that he was on the team.

"So, what's new?" Mikey started a conversation while wiping off some grease with a small rag.

"Oh, nuthin'. Just got a letter from Pepper…"

Mikey turned around, almost hitting his head against the opened metal engine door.

"Pepper? Film school Pepper?"

"Yeah."

Mikey seemed to be deep in thought. "Is she… is she asking about me?" Dell shrugged.

"No. Not really. She said that she was going to Australia."

"Australia?" Mikey turned back to the engine, wiping off now completely clean spots, squinting to keep his tears in. "How nice for her."

Dell couldn't help but to think that he said something wrong. "She, uh… just sends her regards." The moldy dark room seemed to become slightly brighter as Mikey smiled.

"That's good! That's really good! Can… can you hand me that wrench?"

Dell did as he was asked, and watched Mikey hum "I Got You Babe" while checking up on the filters. Soon, a whistle came off outside, and he quickly closed up the engine.

"That's the end of my break. Gotta run now. See ya, Dell!"

"Well… maybe I could do some of your work?"

"No, thanks. I don't wanna owe ya." Mikey said and ran away. As soon as he left, the drill began running again, and Dell was left in the engine room, some steam beginning to puff out of the large mechanical springs on each side of it. He checked the pressure and walked outside. Today was the first day he slacked off at his job. He didn't exactly like it, but he took the time to observe his surroundings. It amazed him how everything stayed the same.

Later, at around six when work was done, the group was sitting in a circle, discussing events.

"So there I was, the hot oil burning my skin, rolling around in pain, and I scream to the wife to get me something to put it out." Spoke the tall man about a cooking mishap which happened years ago; "So I say to her to get me some water. And then she, I shit you not, she looks at me and asks: "Tap water or bottled?" And I was like, Evian, now put me the fuck out!"

The group laughed enthusiastically, eating the remains of their lunch. Dell was coming back to them after picking up something from his truck. The man telling the story rubbed his burned cheek, clearing off a tear.

"Now, I think it's pretty obvious that women are insane." He looked at Lisa; "No offence."

She smiled ironically and took a sip of her whiskey. Dell sat between her and Mikey, holding a guitar. Mikey gawked at it.

"Is that…?"

"Yes, it is." He handed a guitar to Mikey, who held it in his arms like a defenseless child. "I noticed that you were ogling it."

Mikey then, to everyone's surprise, put a guitar on his lap and strummed an A major chord. He then proceeded to sing in his strangely melodic voice.

_Now Dell is a roughneck,  
He gets a big paycheck,  
He's our favorite redneck,  
So I'm singing this song…_

The group laughed at his improvisation, and Dell, though flattered by this gesture, was worried about his guitar.

_This song has no chorus, though,  
Don't want to letcha down, so  
I'm going to show,  
This awesome guitar riff…_

He then started to slam his fingers against the guitar, leaving everyone in tears. Dell snatched his guitar from his grubby hands.

"Okay, boy, you've had your fun." Mikey looked at him with his big puppy dog eyes, looking like he was about to cry. God, Dell loved those colleagues of his.

* * *

It was around ten o'clock when Irene finally convinced Sarah to go to bed. Dinner was extremely good, and, according to Irene, the bills have been paid and everything ran smoothly with Sarah. Irene fell exhausted on the sofa, stretching her legs and putting them on the coffee table. She exhaled loudly. Dell wished her good night and waked to the kitchen.

"And what about our agreement?" she cooed. Dell turned around to her, realizing that he had forgotten about what she had promised this morning.

"Oh." He sat on the sofa next to her and brushed her soft hair off her face. She looked beautiful in the dim, smoky light in the living room. She pressed her lips against his and ran her lean hand down his back.

"Should we go upstairs?" he grinned.

"We could…" Irene unhooked a small white button on her blouse. She flashed him a mischievous smile. "Or, we could do it here."

"On the sofa?" Irene nodded, pushing her nose into his neck. Dell was genuinely surprised. "Well aren't you a little minx?" She giggled quietly.

He unhooked a few more buttons, kissing her the entire time. Irene put one of her long legs on his back, letting her body fall flat on the sofa. They took their time, savoring each other. About five minutes later, just as Dell unhooked the final button, the phone rang.

The annoying ring flew through their ears. "Just ignore it." Irene commanded, kissing him passionately. As much as Dell would like to, he couldn't risk waking up Sarah. With a large sigh, he walked up to the phone, leaving Irene to sit there, her blouse unhooked and completely showing her pink brassiere. She tempted him with her long, penetrating gaze to ignore it, but he managed to avert his look from her eyes. (_Suuuure… her eyes…)_

"Y'ello?" he answered, wondering at what time his shirt came off. A female voice chirped in his ear. Sarah waited patiently for a second before signaling that she was going upstairs.

"Yes, this is Dell."  
…

"Well, I'm actually kinda busy…"  
…

"Really? An emergency?"  
…

"You want to pay me _how much_?"  
…

"Sure. Sure. I can, uhh… check it out, ma'm."  
…

"Yes. Yes. Good night to you too, ma'm."

Later that night, he crept into bed, seeing Irene pretending to sleep. He crawled into bed and whispered to her.

"Some people offered me to fix something for an insane amount of money. So… I guess I won't be here tomorrow morning."

Irene barely listened to him. "Mmmm-hmmm." She hummed, not turning from her side.

Dell reached out his arm and gently touched her shoulder. She quickly jerked it, making him pull his hand back in slight fear. Then she went back to her state of faux sleep. And then, Dell let his head fall to his pillow. She clearly wasn't in the mood. Damn it.


	4. Engineer: The Recruitment

**Note:** Daaaaamn, this turned out to be a long chapter. The end seems rushed, I know, but I think it would've been worse if I overcomplicated things. Because of certain qualities this chapter has, I had to switch the genre to General. Enjoy!... or not, whatever.

* * *

"A... A respawn?"

"That is correct, mister Conagher. A humanoid restoration unit. Only seventeen exist in the entire world. We are lucky to have one. Did you know that the Soviets have four?" Doctor Laszlo explained to the Engineer.

Laszlo and Stein brought him to The Team Fortress Organization HQ early in the morning. Still drowsy from his sleep, he couldn't keep track of where they took him, but he guessed that they were in the middle of the desert somewhere in New Mexico. He was in the laboratory, looking at a machine which, ironically enough, resembled a big futuristic coffin. He had heard about these. They emit omega-rays which can produce brand new cells and organisms, and are capable of creating a human in a matter of seconds, with his memory intact. The only things needed to be provided were a DNA sample, and an identification number.

"The identification number is needed to resurrect **only** the people employed by us. A billion dollar technological masterpiece isn't for just anyone, you know." said Stein. Dell kneeled to look at the matrix of the machine. He found it strange that they asked him to fix it. He found it even stranger that his wife didn't ask too many questions about him leaving the house with two strange men at five a.m.

"So, what seems to be the problem with it?"

"Well… we _could_ tell you…" Laszlo intertwined his fingers fiendishly, "…but instead, how about we demonstrate?" He clapped and called out a name Dell couldn't quite hear. Very soon, an intern walked through the automatic door. He was a twenty year old man, wearing a navy blue T-shirt and constantly scratching his goatee.

"Yes, Doctor?" he grinned.

Doctor Stein took out a gun, shooting the poor man in the head. His brains splattered across the sterile room, leaving Dell in shock. Doctor Laszlo wiped off some blood off his face, while Stein nonchalantly put his gun away.

"Don't worry. He will come back soon enough."

And at that very moment, the small specks of blood began to turn pale. His entire body was disappearing right before Dell's very eyes. This was nothing like he had imagined it would be like. Suddenly, a figure jumped in front of him. It was the reconstructed intern, clutching his head. He opened his mouth to speak:

"Ma, jebem ti mater, koji kurac?" he spewed at doctor Laszlo.

Dell listened closely, but he couldn't understand the word that boy was saying.

"That keeps happening. Don't worry, mister Conagher, he can understand us just fine. However, his brain seems to be rewired, and he now speaks in a strange language. Possibly one from the Balkan region."

Dell looked at the poor intern, his eyes wide opened.

"Hoću li ostati ovakav?"

"What's he saying?" asked Dell.

"Don't worry, Ichabod, Conagher will fix the bug soon enough. Then we will just kill you again, and you will be as good as new." Doctor Stein ignored Dell.

"Yay." Said the intern sarcastically. "Yay" means "yay" in any language, Dell supposed. As he looked at the pair of strange doctors, his mind wandering off to one question he had to ask.

"Why did you choose me? Surely there are other men who are more qualified…"

"Because, mister Conagher, " Laszlo said, "we have done a small check on all the people in the area. You had the highest IQ score. 216. That is quite impressive for a Texan."

"Thanks?" Dell was puzzled.

"216? Mamu ti šarafcigerom, jel' ovo neki Einstein?"

"Besides," continued Laszlo ignoring his profane employee; "you know nothing of the respawn. So you will do whatever we say. Some people familiar with it try to _tweak_ it. They make it worse in the process. You just stick to the blueprint." He pulled out a schematic from a closet next to the respawn. He stretched it over the contraption. It was a beautiful up to scale drawing of the God among machines. Dell struggled not to touch it as the three men of science drooled over it. Dell soon snapped out of his brain deadness. He shook his head and looked closely at Stein.

"How come you can't fix it?" The two doctors looked at each other in shame.

"We, uh… we haven't reached the mental capacity to, uh… reconstruct… the…" Stein looked at Dell who grinned at the doctors, after being put down by the two as soon as he walked in.

"Because…" mumbled Stein.

"Because we're very busy during recruitment season!" finished Laszlo. "So, when can you start on this?"

"Well, uh… I have work tomorrow, so I can make it in the evening… But I tell ya, it ain't gonna be easy or quick."

"We understand. We are grateful for your help." Stein smiled at Dell for the first time. It felt unnatural. "Come on. Let us show you around."

* * *

They stepped out of the laboratory and onto the field. It was a large dusty plain, with a couple of buildings under construction. Dell noticed a few billboards marketing BONK! Atomic Punch. The fine print concerning the side effects took up most of the board. A couple of workers were putting up large plate shaped objects, with colored points in the centre. Laszlo spoke of the history of The Team Fortress Organization, its first team established in 1850. Dell got dizzy from all the buildings. They looked like wooden cottages that would break down at any moment, but they were so beautifully constructed, that they could easily withstand anything. And, according to Laszlo, this particular territory was the attack/defend territory for their future employees. To him, it was the least impressive field.

"Welcome to Dustbowl." He announced to Dell, spinning his arms around like Julie Andrews in _The Sound of Music_. Stein shook his head, unable to compensate how Laszlo could be such a drama queen.

Dell was very impressed. Manufacturing this field so well must have taken months. The small canyon leading to a tunnel from the first plate shaped object, or "control point" as Stein explained, was imperfectly made, but quite functional. The Texan inspected it a couple of times, as Laszlo blabbered about the years of optimizing the battle fields for the teams. As far as Dell understood now, two brothers were bickering about the track of land left to them by their father, and now used small defense forces to solve their arguments for them. The fallen members were revived by the respawn.

"Wait a sec." Dell stopped Laszlo from listing another "fun fact" about the use of omega rays in modern medicine and combat; "If those fellers who fight can't die, why don't you just use the original team? Recruitin' new members sounds like too much work."

Laszlo and Stein looked at each other, as if the Texan had asked them about the Pythagorean Theorem. Everyone knows that one.

"Mister Conagher…" Stein spoke slowly, in a manner of explaining something to a small child; "This organization is not exactly available to the public eye. Sure, some information leaks, some hippies get beaten up by Saxton Hale, but in the end, no one besides us should know about the respawn." He leaned over to Dell. "So, having immortal mercenaries would be a small problem for keeping our secret safe."

Dell nodded. He started to think about how immortality would be like a punishment to a person. Sooner or later, he would be alone in the world, and there was no greater punishment than seeing your friends and family die while you live on.

Suddenly, something caught Dell's eye. It was just in front of the final control point, in a larger space. A couple of wooden human shapes, placed on random locations. Dell had a good idea on what these were.

"Are these…?" he began to ask Stein, who looked at him smugly.

"Yes, mister Conagher. Those are practice targets. We use them to test our candidates."

Dell remembered those warm summer nights he spent shooting cans in the desert. But there were different. These were lifelike, and you could shoot them from every angle. Stein noticed Dell's wishful look.

"We haven't been getting a lot of answers from people interested in the job, so we haven't had a chance to use these yet. But, as long as you're here, you are quite welcome to try."

Dell's eyes sparkled. "Really?"

"Of course!" Stein ran to a small wooden shed. He opened the door with a loud squeak, and opened a small medicine cabinet. In it was a shotgun, two packs of ammo and two emergency medipacs. He grabbed the ammo and shotgun and closed the cabinet. Upon returning to the Texan, who pretended to listen to Laszlo, enthusing about the construction of the control points while making another Julie Andrews type spin, he presented him with a shotgun, smiling.

"Do you know how to use this, sir?" Dell grabbed it greedily and chuckled.

"Is bacon delicious?"

"I wouldn't know." shrugged Abraham Stein, staring at his feet. The Texan felt slightly awkward.

"Just…just watch, son." He said, loading his shotgun in a swift motion.

* * *

Laszlo and Stein stood behind Dell, who just cleared the training field. He let out a victorious shriek, shooting up in the air as the last wooden figure steamed up to the sky. Stein has never seen someone shoot a wooden target in half with a single bullet. A couple of small cartridges lay around the field. Dell turned around proudly, and practically burst out laughing as he saw the doctors' dropped jaws.

"But…how?" Laszlo managed.

"I'm Texan."

Suddenly, a skinny figure appeared behind him. Her hair looked like a puff of grayish smoke, circling Dell's head. She wore a purple suit and flat shoes. The doctors froze as they saw her, but didn't say anything. The Texan stared at their terrified faces. He smiled at them, before he flinched at the piercing voice of the woman behind him.

"Are you the man in charge of fixing the respawn?" Dell bent in his knees slightly as he quickly regained his composure. They were now at eye level. He reached out his hand to greet her.

"Yes, I am, ma'm. Dell Conagher, at your service." The woman looked coldly at his stretched out hand.

"Helen. But you may call me The Administrator." She walked away from him and proceeded to the doctors, a patch of completely white hair bouncing as she did.

"We…we just let him… uh… he'll be back to work shortly." Laszlo tried to explain, but was interrupted by Helen.

"Save it." She raised her right hand close to his face. "Tell the workers to put up more targets for him."

"For him?" Stein blinked at her. Helen turned slightly to the side, looking at their new engineer. Dell thought he noticed something odd about her face. It changed it, not necessarily in a good way. Maybe it was a smile? Or the hot New Mexico sun finally took a toll on him and made him hallucinate. He shook his head just as she formed another serious frown.

"Yes. For him. He has good aim." She leaned over to Stein and whispered, just quietly enough for Dell not to hear. "He may be useful for something other than fixing things." She then turned to Dell, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Take the DNA sample, Laszlo." The doctor reached deep into his lab coat pocket and pulled out a small razor and a cotton swab. He walked up to Dell and held out his arm.

"Ouch!" he shrieked as a small scratch appeared on the surface of his skin. Laszlo quickly swabbed the crimson blood and put the swab into a small plastic bag, which he then put back into his labcoat. The Texan looked at Helen, who was now definately smiling.

"We want all of our workers to be in our respawn database. We wouldn't want something to happen to our brave engineer, now do we?" she said, slightly leaning her head to the right. Dell couldn't argue with that logic, so he continued to silently grasp his fresh cut.

Dell watched her walk away slowly. He noticed that it was already noon. He felt his stomach rumble.

"What, are you hungry?" Laszlo asked; "We'll get you something in the canteen. Then we can start on fixing the respawn." He put his hand on the Texan's back and slowly guided him back to the tunnel at the end of the canyon.

* * *

"So, how was work today?" asked Irene as soon as Dell came home. Sarah happily ran to her dad she hasn't seen in over 12 hours, almost knocking him over.

"Sorry I was gone so long." He apologized with a grunt as he picked up Sarah in his arms; "Most of the time I was on tour of the location. I actually just started fixing the thing around two."

"Oh." Irene returned to cutting up carrots for dinner. She wasn't happy about her husband being gone for a full day on a Sunday, and she was even less thrilled upon realizing that he slacked off for most of it. Dell didn't notice her discomfort, so he continued talking:

"Turns out that a bug got in the system. The lil' thing died inside, and it messed with the matrix. We managed to clean the most of it out, but repairing it will take a bit longer than expected."

"Mmmm-hmmm." Irene ignored Dell, keeping quiet, but burning with anger on the inside. Her mother always taught her to keep her mouth closed, and her family's stomach full at all times. Her mom didn't, and she had to bear the shame of being a small town divorcee at the age of 30. Living without a father was tough for Irene, so she made a promise to do everything her mother didn't. She remembered the day her mother came home late from another unsuccessful date. She sat next to her, reeking of gin. She patted Irene's head, tears running down her cheeks.

"Next time your man is doing something stupid, let him. Don't talk and make it worse."

And Irene listened to that piece of advice, never straying from it. But it was hard sometimes, just like today. She listened to Sarah ask her dad about the job, but gave little, if any, effort to listen to his answers. Dell put Sarah on the ground and told her to go play outside until dinner was ready.

"So, what do you think about your new project?" Irene finally asked, as she let the water shut itself off automatically.

"I recon it's good. They will pay me well, and I can come by and work on it anytime." He got in front of her and hugged her. Irene was too worried to let the hug go any further. As she wiggled out of his embrace, she looked up to the ceiling.

"But don't let this interfere with your other duties."

Dell smiled and shook his head.

"Don't worry. I called the folks down at the rig. They understand. Mikey will cover for me. And I'll still go to work, don't you worry." He pressed his wife's cheeks with his thumb and index finger, which made her look like a puffy fish. He then casually strolled away to check the roast in the oven.

"I meant," she said, rubbing her cheeks; "don't forget your fatherly duties. Sarah hasn't seen you all day. Try not to let that happen again." Dell was slightly irritated by her remark.

"Don't worry. It won't." he flashed her a big ol' Texan smile.

_Though you don't have to be such a bitch about it._

* * *

Dell still couldn't sleep. It was around midnight, and he rolled in his bed, staring at the moonlight shining behind the curtains, making them seen lighter. He thought about that one thing that popped into his head. Never, in all 19 years of being married to Irene, he never once considered her to be a bitch about anything. She was a good wife, she did as she was told, but still had a mind of her own. Not many women were like that, and that's why he loved her. He never called her a bitch, not even in their most fearsome arguments. She wasn't a bitch today. What she said made complete sense, and was completely reasonable. Yet he still couldn't shake the slight anger he felt towards her. He was slightly angry at everything. Maybe spending Sunday away from home hit him harder than he thought. Working on a very hard project for hours is a nightmare, but it was no excuse to be that upset once you get home. All the things he thought that day were returning to him, harassing him as he tried to fall asleep. He felt like he was attacked by a dozen bees, stinging him one at a time, in no particular order. He tossed around in bed with a strange mix of guilt and confusion. Everything was exactly the same as it was yesterday, two weeks, or three months ago. So why did it start bothering him today?

He got absolutely no sleep that night. He woke up puffy eyed, and couldn't focus on eating his breakfast. Sarah was continuously asking him why he didn't sleep well. Dell was too tired to listen to her. He was extremely close to telling her to shut up. Irene cautiously gave him an Aspirin and a glass of water. More and more uncomfortable thoughts piled over Dell's mind.

"Are you still going to try and fix that thing? I doubt you'll even function at all today."

_Somebody has to, you idiot. Somebody has to pay for all those oven mitts you've been buying._

Dell shook him head, and looked at Irene with a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, darlin'. Don't worry about me." But it would take more than that for Irene not to worry.

Later that day, while Dell was fidgeting around the leaking boiler down at the rig, he simply couldn't concentrate. He listened to the water boiler hiss, and no matter how hard he tried to open it, the big red valve was stuck.

"Con 'sarn it…" he cursed. A glimpse of hope came when he finally loosened the valve, only to be gone forever, as hot water poured from the small opening onto his small cut Laszlo made the day before. Dell screamed, moving out of the way.

"God dang it!" His arm was now red, and little pink boils started to jump out. He cautiously stepped out of the boiler room, cursing the white water heating tank as he did. His arm was throbbing, so he grabbed it and ran to see Lisa, completely forgetting to check the pressure of the drill engine. Not his finest maintenance round he ever did, but it was all he could do today. Everything began to annoy him, from the long truck drive to work, to Mikey, who constantly kept asking about Pepper and ogling his guitar. He needed to get a hang of himself. He can't be this irritated later, when he's fixing a billion dollar piece of technology. He ran off to Lisa, who was eating a banana. She dropped the peel on the ground, took one look at his hand and sighed.

"I'm gonna need you to sit down for a bit." Dell did as he was told, and watched Lisa stride over to a small wooden case. In it was her lunch and a medipack she kept inside for emergencies. She bent over to pick it up, and Dell couldn't help but look at her round, perky posterior. He never realized before how sexy Lisa was. When she took out the medipack, she turned to Dell, who was now nervously crossing his legs. He reached out his boiled arm.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." Lisa commented; "You still manage to get burned after ten years, huh?"

Dell kept quiet. His mind, though, prepared about a billion insults to that.

She took out a bandage and some alcohol. Pouring some ice cold water on the burn, she disinfected the area, just in case. She then rubbed on some of her hand crème, apologizing for not having any medical balm at the moment. She finished by wrapping his arm and hand with a bandage.

"There." She cut off the excess bandage with a pair of scissors from the medipack. "Now, you be careful, OK." Dell was disappointed in himself for letting a woman half his age patronize him. He gave her a wry smile before he stood up and left, without saying much as a simple "thank you".

He told another worker that he was going home, and at that very moment, he was jumped by Mikey.

"Going so soon, Dell?" he asked with a disappointed frown. "That's too bad. Did you get any letters from Pepper?"

Dell didn't look at him, but he was tired of everything that happened today. And now he needed to get to the TF base to continue working on the respawn. All the hard work he was in for made him irritated, and the last thing he needed was a worm pestering him.

"If I were you, I would stop obsessing with Pepper. Or my guitar, for that matter." He looked at Mikey, who was now extremely confused.

"You ain't getting your grubby little hands on either one of 'em, boy."

And with that, he left Mikey. The poor floorman continued to stand there, told off by the man he considered his idol.

* * *

For some reason, Dell enjoyed fixing the respawn. He would casually drop by, be greeted by Laszlo and Stein, work on the strange coffin-like contraption, which bemused him and fascinated him beyond belief. Every day, he stayed there, fixing the darn thing for hours, until he finally got to the point where he thought it would function normally. He only felt bad for poor Ichabod, who kept being killed over and over again. Though he had stopped cursing in Bosnian, one time he was completely mute, and the other he turned into a woman. Though Stein begged Laszlo to keep him that way, Laszlo demanded the respawn be fixed, and Ichabod be returned to his previous, less graceful form. Then Dell would go out and shoot a couple of targets, being constantly praised by the doting Administrator. He liked it at Dustbowl. So much, in fact, that he began to return home much later than usual, and as soon as he got to his loving family, he would go to bed.

"Why didn't daddy kiss me goodnight?" Sarah asked again. It was almost midnight, and she had stayed up to see her dad. When he walked in and saw her, groggy and reaching out her arms to greet him, he just nodded to her. His own daughter looked more and more like a friendly acquaintance. Dell went upstairs, and Sarah went in the dining room, where Irene was sitting. Irene didn't sleep much in the last few days. She spent her nights in the dining room, holding her head with both of her hands and sometimes sobbing softly. Sarah walked up to her, clutching her oversized teddy-bear close to her tiny body. Irene sighed upon looking at her confused daughter.

"Daddy…" Irene tried to find the words to explain mid-life crisis to a seven year old.

"Daddy is just tired, that's all. He's tired of a lot of things right now, and I shouldn't blame him. So he goes around acting strange, and he doesn't come home before ten, and he acts really silly. But soon, he'll realize how silly he actually is. And then it will all be good again…I hope." Sarah didn't get any of it. Irene hopelessly told her to go to bed.

Meanwhile, Dell wasn't happy about himself either. He knew that he was too cold to his family. But suddenly, everything began to annoy him. Sarah talked too much, and Irene was always nagging. The mailman never arrived on time, and the Rodney's next door never mow their lawn. The worst thing about it was that nothing changed for Dell. He was still doing the same old job, living in the same old town, doing the same old thing. And ever since he started working with TF Industries, life was better. It was more exciting. He could finally have a decent mental challenge worthy of his 11 PhDs. His life would've been so much better if he stayed in California after his studies. There would be so many opportunities. He felt like he was an awful person just for thinking about it. Would a good person question their entire life, hastily rolling in his bed at 3 am? The longer he worked on the respawn, the easier it was to fall asleep at night. His dreams weren't peaceful, though. They were mostly nightmares, about his family abandoning him, or pushing them away himself. Sometimes, only sometimes, he dreamt pleasant dreams. They were usually about TF Industries, the joy of shooting wooden dummies. And Lisa. Lisa popped into his head more than once, and for Dell, it was quite a pleasant dream. The fact that the dream was so enjoyable made it harder for him to work with her on the rig. Heck, it made it harder for him to concentrate at all. He didn't check the engine pressure in a whole week, and he only fixed objects if it was a dire emergency. The other roughnecks weren't happy about it, but didn't say anything. As long as the whole rig didn't blow up, it was alright with them. But things kept getting worse at the Conagher household.

One day while Irene was cleaning Sarah's lovely pink room, she found a letter. It was addressed to Claus, Santa and Mrs. ; North Pole; Rudolph Avenue 2512. Irene laughed at her attention to details, but was confused about why her daughter was writing a letter to Santa in August. She slowly opened the envelope and sat on her daughter's bed. Expecting a wish list dominated by Barbie dolls and ponies, she almost got a heart attack when she read her letter.

_Dear Santa,_

_I want a new Daddy._

_My Daddy is ok, but he gets very grumpy and doesn't want to do anything with me. I want you to use a magic spell on my dad to make him happy again. If you can't I want a new one. I'm writing this early, because I know how long it takes to get a new Daddy. Susan's Daddy left in March, and her mom got her a new one this month. She doesn't like the new one that much, but this one is much happier than her old one. I've been a really good girl this year. I think I'm not asking for much._

_Love, Sarah_

Irene ran into the bathroom and locked the door, reading the letter over and over again. She sat on the toilet and cried for the first time in years. She bit her fist so no one could hear her. The white porcelain bathroom seemed to melt in front of her very eyes, as the hot tears dripped from her face.

"Mommy?" Sarah knocked; "are you alright?"

Sarah quickly put the note in her pocket and ran to wash her face. "Just a minute!" she tried to sound as calm as possible. She wiped her face with a clean towel before opening the door, smiling at her daughter.

"Have you been crying?" Sarah asked.

"No…no… I was peeling unions."

Sarah frowned at her mom. "I hate unions."

As Sarah walked down the hall, Irene called out to her nervously.

"You…you still love Daddy, don't you?"

Sarah nodded softly. "Do you?"

And the worst thing was, Irene couldn't answer that.

* * *

"Alright! I think it's fixed." Dell stepped back from the respawn. Laszlo and Stein followed.

"Do you think it'll work this time?" Stein asked.

"Only one way to find out. Ichabod!" The poor intern walked inside, dragging his lizard tail behind.

"Good God, man. You look horrible."

Ichabod grinned to Laszlo. "Likewise."

He was right. Both Laszlo and Stein were severely beat up yesterday by a man named John Doe. They were already starting to recruit new members, and this one didn't take it very well.

"But we got our revenge, you see." Laszlo leaned over to Dell, softly touching his broken nose; "We changed his name to Jane Doe in all his documents. We even hacked into the main archive and tweaked his birth certificate." He laughed maniacally.

"Alright, it's time!" Stein announced, hoping to shut Laszlo up. He pulled out a gun, and Ichabod flinched. About a few seconds later, his poor body disappeared into thin air. Dell got used to the brutal murder of Ichabod on a daily basis. He wiped off the blood off his chin only to see it disappear before his very eyes. Seconds later, Ichabod stood before them. He wasn't speaking Bosnian, he didn't resemble a reptilian, and his y chromosome was intact.

"Oh my God, it's hideous!" screamed Laszlo.

"This is how I normally look." Ichabod said nervously.

"That's what I meant," smiled Laszlo, showing his chipped tooth. Dell was proud of what he had done, even if he didn't know what exactly he was doing. At first, he carefully categorized every single chip, and carefully calculated all possible outcomes of screwing each nut. But after three weeks of hard work, and possible caffeine poisoning, he used a simple technique he picked up from Sarah.

"Eeenie, meenie, miney…"

And this mo finally earned him his salary. Stein and Laszlo clapped as Dell humbly smiled. TF has become a second home to him. Sometimes he thought of it as his only home. Irene would kill him if she knew that.

"Bravo, Mister Conagher." Helen appeared out of nowhere. The Texan didn't know how to react to Helen's praise, so he mumbled something under his breath. Helen looked at Stein.

"I would like to take out Mister Conagher for a walk. Are you alright with that?"

This was, of course, a rhetorical question. If they said anything other than "yes, your imperial highness", they would never be heard from again. Helen gestured towards the door, and walked towards it, her arms tucked behind her back. Dell followed her like a puppy.

They walked side by side near the training field, the twilight sun shining warmly on their faces. Dell looked at a man standing in the middle of the field, clutching a shovel.

"Umm, yello, there, buddy!" he spoke without Helen's permission, making her frown; "Are you lost or summin'?"

The well built man looked at him under his large helmet.

"Lost? Lost?! Where I'm from, lost people are DEAD people! I am simply waiting for the next mission! At ease, maggot!" With that, he turned back, facing the sun.

"Mr. Doe fails to understand that the mission is in five days. He has been standing there since yesterday." Helen explained. Dell laughed at his stubbornness, but still admired his discipline.

"I see you've started recruitin'." Dell smiled.

"Yes. And we would like to recruit you, mister Conagher." She said, as she was just saying "hello".

* * *

After Helen's proposal, Dell couldn't think straight. For the next four days, he wondered about what it would be like to work for TF Industries. He would be away most of the time. He would have to quit his job. Could Sarah handle him being gone? He didn't want to disappoint his family, but he couldn't handle being here. It was so similar, day after day. TF was interesting. TF was exciting! He sometimes started driving to the laboratory after work, just because of impulse. Then he would return home, and hated that he had to go back. Dell felt guilty because he was thinking all that. He didn't enjoy barbecues anymore, and cancelled the hunting trip with his dad. It just wasn't the same. He couldn't enjoy anything. He found himself on the rig, thinking about what he was going to do with himself. TF required fighting. He wouldn't take any tests, because he has already proven his high mental abilities and good aim. His monthly paycheck would be a yearly one at the rig. Maybe he wouldn't even be thinking about it if he could change one thing about his life. Just one thing, and life would make sense again. And then he saw it.

Or, more specifically, he saw her.

Lisa stood in front of him, drinking her sixth cup of coffee. She flashed him a delightful smile. God, she was sexy. Lisa came up to him, offering him some Irish coffee from her flask. He didn't want the flask, so he slapped it out of her hand. Lisa looked at the brown liquid pour over the dirt they stood on. She held her hands out in protest, only for Dell to grab them, forcing his lips onto her.

"Dell, what the hell?" she struggled.

"I'm sorry!" Dell said as an impulse, though he didn't feel sorry about it at all. He pressed himself on her again.

"Dell, I'm serious. I'm counting to three…" she wasn't amused. She was mostly angry. Dell continued to run his hands over her back.

"One…"

And just as she said that, he pressed his hand against a small lump on her overalls, which he guessed was her breast.

"Three!"

Dell was catapulted into mid air. Everything was in slow motion. He saw Lisa's clenched fists and stiff facial expression. Her work boot was lifted up in the air. She lowered it, just as he fell on his knees in pain. He fell on the dirt, clutching his family jewels. He looked at her with a painful expression. Lisa's boot appeared in front of his face again, as she stood in front of him.

"What the hell were you thinking?!"

Dell buried his face in the dirt with shame. Lisa's tone softened, but her stiff face remained.

"I know how fucked up you are now, but think about poor Irene! Think about Sarah! Don't you dare compromise that, and don't you dare come close to me again." Dell listened to every word she said, the truth stinging him like a wasp.

"If you want to jeopardize your family and life, that's fine by me. But keep me out of it." She growled. And just like that, all feelings Dell had for that woman were gone. Still, the shame remained. He spat out some blood and managed to stand up, with a loud groan. Slowly, he stuttered to the drill. Lisa was there, but couldn't look at him in the eye. Mikey tended the drill, cleaning it.

"Oh Dell, as long as you're there, can you get me that wrench?"

Dell was conflicted. On one hand, he had a family that loved him, and great friends. On other hand, he just wanted to get as far away from them as possible.

"Seriously though, it's right there. I really need that wrench." Said Mikey.

If only TF gave him a clue. Something that let him know that he belonged there.

"Need that wrench here…"

Maybe, maybe if he could finally talk to Irene about it… Oh God, will that kid stop talking?

"Need a wrench here, need a wrench here, need a wrench here…"

"Fine!" Dell screamed at the prepubescent boy destroying his eardrums. He picked up a wrench from the ground and threw it at the drill. It clanged, making everyone look at him.

"God, you are annoying!" Dell clutched his head. Nobody knew what had just happened, but they all knew that Dell would break down sometime. Dell looked at them with judging eyes.

"What are you looking that? Is it a surprise that I'm yelling? Is it a surprise I'm annoyed? It should be a surprise you sons-a-bitches didn't get this from me earlier!" The roughnecks were silent.

"Is the world going to break if ol' Dell isn't there to fix it? Is it a problem if I need something? I shouldn't be helping a worm! The worm is at the bottom of the God damn food chain!" Mikey hid behind the large drill.

"You are weighing me down, you know that?" his voice softened. "I would be better off without you anyway. I would be better off if I never met you, and may the Lord strike me down if I'm wrong!"

Much as the pressure was boiling in Dell's head, the pressure was boiling inside the engine. The steamy engine room clanged and jittered and the steely contraption couldn't stay together much longer. The pressure no one has checked for three weeks was being a bit too much, and had to be released. With a loud fiery explosion, the engine room burst into smithereens, sending out shards of metal to harpoon through the air. The roughnecks screamed in terror as the entire site caught on fire. They all rushed into their vans, cursing. It was a terrible site. A large metal shard flew straight for Dell. It cut through his windpipe and came out through the other side. Dell blinked heavily. All he could see was whiteness and pain. Even though he was in a burning site, he felt cold. And then he felt nothing.

* * *

Stein was reading a status report on Dustbowl, and was very satisfied. Everything was in place, and they can soon begin the operation. He had his feet on the desk, and took a sip of Coca Cola. Suddenly, Dell jumped in front of him. Stein almost fell from his chair.

"Sir, what are you…?"

Dell was holding onto his desk, breathing heavily. He felt like he was hit by a truck. He had no idea what happened, or why his throat was intact. Stein knew. He had just been respawned. He put a blanket over him and guided him to his car, ready to take him home. The ride was long and Stein didn't ask him much about his death. Dell listened to the radio in the backseat. His head was still pounding and he felt weak. He had a new respect for poor Ichabod.

_"Chaos still havocs in the former _Bee Oil_ drilling site. Most workers have made it out alive, except for one worker who remains unidentified. The incident was caused by an overloaded engine, which exploded, leaving…"_

"I did this." Dell's mind had a moment of pure clearance. "And Team Fortress saved my life."

* * *

It took a lot of convincing to reassure Irene that Dell was not a ghost and that she could safely put the frying pan down. When she stopped crying, she kissed Dell. Then she slapped him, telling him what an idiot he was, and how miserable he made her. Then she kissed him again. Sarah didn't know about anything. When she came home from school, her parents were setting up the table for dinner. She was just glad her dad was there.

"I've been offered a job at TF Industries. I'm…I'm thinking of taking it. I would be gone for most of the week, but I'll still come to visit on the weekends. Heck, I'll visit you whenever I can. But, um… I will have to be away most of the time." He announced at the dinner table. Irene and Sarah looked at him. They weren't worried, but relieved.

"I think it's for the best." Irene said. Separation seemed better than divorce. After talking things out with Dell, it was clear to everyone that he was just stuck in a never ending routine. TF showed him that, and if it wasn't for them, he may have still been the good ol' Dell everyone knew and loved. But something else may have rustled his routine eventually. And it was better sooner than later.

"So nothing would really change then, would it?" Sarah said, trying to make a joke. But all it did was made things a nuance sadder. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Dell stood up to open it. The man knocking was Mikey, his hair falling over his freckled face as he bowed his head down in concern. He held a bouquet of red roses, and almost dropped it as he saw Dell.

"You! What…but…how?"

"Long story." Dell shrugged as Irene walked up behind him. "So, what's up?"

Mikey, still not being able to comprehend that Dell was alive, and quite well, spoke in small sentences.

"Well, I… The rig is gone. Nothing's left. Yeah. We're all fired. Not sure if that applies to you. Because… We thought you were dead. But, uh… I doubt you'll still be employed. Even if you are alive… **If** you are alive…" Mikey pressed his skinny finger against Dell's chest.

"'Course I'm still alive, dummy. Now why don't you just run over to your mama and don't worry 'bout me." Irene smiled at the boy, who was now completely baffled. He gave Irene the roses.

"Ignore the card. I figure you can still have 'em." He then ran off, figuring out how a person can recover after being pierced by a 10 pound piece of sharp metal. As soon as he left, Irene took out the small white card. On it was a note written in cursive:

_Send Pepper my condolences. _

"At least he didn't add "dibs on the guitar"." Dell shook his head.

* * *

Only two days later, Dell, The Engineer, was sitting in the resupply room. He took his guitar with him to remind him of home. He tuned it as he was waiting for the RED's next mission. He was one of the few members to be employed by the Administrator herself, and that was an enormous privilege.

"I love you too, mommy." said a young man to his mother on the phone before walking back to his bench, embarrassed. Dell found it endearing. It reminded him of Sarah, who waved at him as he stepped into the car taking him to the base. The last thing he saw was a postman, arriving late again. The last thing he heard was Irene explaining something to Aunt Millie on the phone.

"Yes he's alive…No, he's not injured… Well, would you like to talk to him?... No, I won't use an Ouija board..."

And then he was gone. He wasn't nervous about joining RED. His family wasn't sad that he was leaving. Everyone was just relieved. Sarah kept talking about how in a year or so, both Dell and Pepper would be back home. She couldn't wait to see her again. Dell smiled thinking about it. For the first time in a long time, he was relaxed.

"Hey, you!" the young man yelped at him.

"Yeah?"

"You's Texan, right?"

Dell was baffled by this question. "Yes?"

The young man turned to a tall man wearing yellow aviator glasses.

"Told ya's I could tell nationalities. I could since I was five."

"Oi stand corrected, momma's boy." Teased the tall man while picking at his stubble. Dell liked this place. It was just so delightfully casual. Unlike at Bee Cave, you never knew exactly what would happen. Suddenly, the phone rang. The RED members looked at it. Dell carefully picked up the phone after short hesitation.

"Y'ello?"

"Dell?" it was the unmistakable voice of his wife.

"Irene? What's going on."

"I just wanted to tell you…" she gulped; "Pepper isn't coming home."

"What? Why?" so many questions came to mind, but he certainly wasn't expecting her following answer.

"I won't let her." The phone line went dead.

Nope. You never knew what to expect at TF.


	5. Heavy

Note: You all noticed a cliff hanger in the last chapter. Don't worry, all will be revealed soon... but not in this chapter. Not even in the next one. In fact, maybe I wll just keep you hanging a bit longer. I now present to you: Heavy! Notice how I used up so much space to say nothing about the man. Heh. Feel free to tell me which character I should write about next. Thanks for the support. Okay, now just scroll down...

* * *

After Miss Pauling was caught lying to the Administrator, she waited nervously for her punishment. She felt like an injured antelope, about to be attack and feasted on by a savage lioness. Helen wasn't particularly quick when it came to torturing her employees, but she was ruthless about it. It was a late Tuesday afternoon, when Pauling came into the Administrator's office. Her flat shoes seemed louder than ever before. Her pace was slow and careful, and she felt like she was walking on eggshells. The plan was simple: Get the status report. Get out. Send it to Redmond Mann. Live out rest of your life avoiding Helen until either she forgets about the lying, or until one of them dies.

And Pauling knew that Helen wasn't very forgetful.

Pauling spotted the report put neatly in a file in the centre of Helen's desk. She gulped as she approached it. She quietly bent over to grab it.

"Need something, Pauling?" the Administrator's piercing voice made Pauling flinch. Helen turned in her chair. She wasn't looking at Pauling, and was holding a sheet of paper, which she was studying carefully.

"Umm… I need to send this file to the Mann manor." Pauling stood back up, awkwardly clutching the paper. The room was extremely dark, almost an ominous pitch black. The long velvet curtains on the large window behind Helen were completely shut, not letting in a speck of light.

"Pauling, have a seat. We need to talk about yesterday."

Pauling looked at the large busted up door. She cursed John Doe for making his little appearance like that. She sat on the small uncomfortable chair opposite of Helen. She slouched in it, trying to get comfortable.

Who was ever comfortable in an electric chair?

"Pauling, your lying was extremely disrespectful."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just thought…"

"I am the one who thinks around here." Helen exclaimed. "However, we might be able to get past that if you participate in one small recruitment operation."

Pauling tried not to look at Helen, whose big beady eyes were staring straight into her soul.

"There is a man…" Helen continued, not expecting or wanting a response.

"A man who I find to be very capable."

"Capable at what?"

"That is hardly any of your concern." snapped Helen. "However, the man lives somewhat… remote."

"Remote?"Pauling brought her legs together, anxiously.

"He lives far away." The Administrator said, looking back at the paper. "I would like you to go there and recruit him yourself."

"Y…yes, ma'm." Miss Pauling stared at her feet for a while. "Where…exactly does he live?"

The Administrator showed her a small grin. Pauling felt like she would be getting less psychological torture from Satan herself. Helen slowly took one cigarette from her jacket, bringing it close to her mouth. She lit it with a small silver lighter, with the words _Magister Mundi sum _engraved on it. Helen took a deep inhale, as she let the smoke come out through her nose. She looked like a raging bull.

"Miss Pauling." She said, making the poor young girl cringe.

"How well do you speak Russian?"

* * *

You could've said anything to Pauling, and the young girl might have believed you. But never, in all of her time spent working for Team Fortress, she never thought that her master's degree in Russian would come back to bite her on the ass. All those years spent banging her head against her bedroom desk were all for naught. Not once did she have the opportunity to put her degree to the test, and, shockingly, it didn't do much to help her get a job either. She almost forgot about it, never speaking to anyone about it and no one actually caring for it. But, alas, she knew that her dear, dear employer would find a way to dig it out. She could've lied and told her that she doesn't speak Russian, but she knew that something would give her off. Everyone knew when she was lying, and that complicated things for her. Especially now.

Pauling sat in an old clunky airplane, making a direct flight to Moscow. She was seated near the window, next to a very obese man. Behind her was a woman with two babies, who were presumably training for the upcoming synchronized wailing competition. Their mother seemed to be deaf, ignoring her two little angels as they made everyone's ears bleed. Pauling pressed her face against the blurry window with a loud sigh. She was on the plane for three hours, but she was up in the air for only twenty minutes. Maintenance issues. She wasn't comfortable with maintenance issues on a plane which is supposed to fly her to Moscow, and strangely, she found herself hoping that "maintenance issues" was code for "pilot screwing the fat assed stewardess". Pauling laughed at that thought, but was soon brought back to reality. Eleven hours more to go… the entire airplane smelled of sweat and cheap perfume, because Helen **had** to put her in economy class. The fat man next to Pauling fell asleep. And snored. She cursed John Doe again, looking at the small houses, which will soon disappear behind the thick fluffy clouds. She casually looked at the wing of the plane. Things couldn't possibly get any…

The engine is on fire. Yep. The bloody engine is on fire.

Okay, maybe it isn't on fire…maybe it is supposed to steam up that way. Pauling rummaged through her small leather purse, pulling out a picture of the man she was supposed to recruit. He was looking slightly to the left, his bald head shining in the light. His face was shaped like a square… at least the bottom half. The top half was mostly a ball. A big, bald, shiny one. He had a distinguished look on his face, frowning at whatever was on the left. His nose was surprisingly small compared to the rest of him. He was indeed a huge man, and Pauling failed to understand why the Administrator wanted him, in particular.

"I hope you're worth it." She thought.

The alpha waves her brain emitted as she thought about this irritated the babies and they started howling again in unison, their mother reading her magazine peacefully. Pauling felt her eye twitch. In her purse, she found a small bottle of Vicodin. It was given to her by Helen, as well as the picture of the wanted man.

"Since I'm not completely evil, I will give you two tips: 1. Drink at least two of these, and 2. Bring a warm jacket."

Pauling unscrewed the blue cap as the plane ascended into white nothingness. She looked at the lime green carpeting and sighed. She hated lime green. Not looking away from the disgusting carpet, she put a couple of pills in her hand and popped them in her mouth. It was only after swallowing them that she realized that she had taken more than two pills. But how many more? She looked at the bottle. It was half empty.

"Oh crap." She clutched her seat. The plane looked as if it was going to crash. "This is not good. This is not good at…"

The next thing she knew, she was being "gently" woken up by the fat assed stewardess. She slapped her cheek until Pauling came to. Her face was frozen and her drool was everywhere. Still, the strangest thing was that the plane was empty.

"Welcome to Moscow." Said the blonde stewardess in her unnecessarily peppy voice.

"Have I been sleeping for 12 hours?" Pauling rubbed her face.

"Thirteen, actually. We thought you were dead." The stewardess smiled.

Pauling blinked the gunk out of her eyes. "I wish I was." She moaned.

* * *

After sitting on a plane for thirteen hours, Pauling was less than happy about spending an additional two hours in an old, banged up car driven by Sergej, one of Helen's close friends who volunteered to take her up to the man's home. She leaned on the dusty window, her face making a heart-shaped imprint. Sergej was listening to some nauseating Russian folk-music, bobbing his head up and down.

"So what brings you to Vodka, missy?"

"Pardon?" Miss Pauling's voice was croaked, almost painful to listen to. She blinked at him heavily.

"The man you're lookin' for." Sergej explained in his solid English he had learnt from watching American sit-coms he smuggled to Russia on tapes; "Vodka Drukenski. I'm surprised Helen sent you for him without giving you the name."

Miss Pauling looked at the back of the given photo. Helen ordered her to get the man, and to get her favorite brand of Vodka. She confused the two.

"So I guess Smirnoff isn't his last name, then." She said to herself, trying to ignore the toothless man's off-key singing. He shook his head, interrupting his solo performance, much to Pauling's relief.

"So what brings you to him?" he asked. There was just a hint of a Russian accent in his pronunciation, Pauling noticed, but she was grateful that she could still communicate with him in English.

"Business or pleasure?"

Pauling looked at the picture of the man in her hand. He had a killer's look, and resembled a human tank. Any man would gladly stand behind this man in battle, but only for the purpose of using him as a human shield.

"Business, unfortunately." She shrugged. The car then ran across a small pot hole, causing it to jump up in the air. Pauling shrieked.

"Don't be so scared, missy." Sergej teased her. "You will find that pot holes are the one thing you shouldn't worry about in this part of Russia." They were in a village; about 60 miles away from Moscow, where the roads were dusty and the women carried large baskets of food on top of their heads. A thin layer of snow covered the houses. Snow in September was probably a common thing here. The longer she and Sergej travelled north, more snow accumulated, and Pauling could spot less people with a full set of teeth.

"So what is Helen pissed off about?" Sergej asked while looking at the rear-view mirror. He used a lot of "American style words", as he called them, which he picked up from all the shows he had watched. And he kept calling Pauling "missy", a nickname which both irritated Pauling, and made her smile every time she heard it.

"Well…" Pauling almost laughed as she recalled what exactly she did wrong; "She hired an employee that I thought was inadequate for the job. When she asked for my opinion, I said I respected her choice. But then, uh… she guessed that I was lying." As she spoke, she could see more and more snow upon trees and small cottages. It has been five minutes since she saw a conventional house.

"Heh. That woman can be a real…how you say it… pain in the neck?" he smiled at Pauling, revealing both of his teeth.

"I would say the other thing, but I think that woman may have bugged this car."

"That sounds like her." Pauling shrugged. She picked at the dusty window with her finger. The cottages now disappeared, and the man had no idea of stopping anytime soon.

"Excuse me, sir…" Pauling stuttered; "Where are we going exactly?"

"To his place." Said the Russian cheerfully, as if he had explained everything. He looked into the distance, the vast highway covered with snow. The old windshield wipers screeched against the glass over and over, almost sounding like a rhythm.

_Screech, screech, pothole, screech, screech, pothole…_

"I heard two more guys were sent away as a punishment." Said Sergej, interrupting Pauling's train of thought.

_Screech, screech… _"I'm sorry?" she turned away from the window.

"Yeah. Two guys were sent south for accidentally rejecting a guy Helen hired later on. Phew. That Helen is a piece of work. But, if there's anyone who knows how to get things done it's her." He said that last sentence loudly, looking around the car, as if he tried to find a microphone or something. Pauling smiled vaguely. The engine started clanking again. It never stopped, but it got slightly louder after every fifth pothole or so. To make things worse, another song came up on the radio, Sergej's favorite. He knew all the words, but not the melody or rhythm, as Pauling might have guessed.

Вы_йду, выйду в рожь высокую,__  
Там до ночки погожу,  
Как завижу черноокую,  
Все товары разложу…_

Pauling rummaged through her purse, looking for that pill bottle. If nine pills put her out for thirteen hours, maybe one pill would…

"We're here!" exclaimed Sergej. Pauling didn't realize that they were on macadam, far away from the highroad. It ended in a large pile of white crackling snow. Everyone loved that snow, the true winter sensation of having those small white flakes crumble beneath your knee-high boots while rushing home to warm up. Sadly, that snow made the rest of the road impenetrable.

"This is as far as I can go, missy." shrugged Sergej. Pauling took her purse, the only thing she brought to this one day recruiting mission, and walked out of the car, pushing away some snow with the car door as she did. She had no idea it would be this cold. She adjusted her mittens, struggling to breathe, since the air somehow obtained the texture of thick toothpaste. Sergej didn't seem to mind it. He stepped out easily and leaned over the small yellow ZAZ-965. The snow cleaned it a bit, and Pauling saw that it was actually yellow, and not chestnut as she originally thought.

"Will you be okay on your own? It's not far from here?" asked Sergej.

"I'll be fine." Pauling made a "don't worry about it" hand gesture. "It's either facing the snow or facing… her." Sergej smiled quietly.

"You will like Vodka. He is a pretty cool guy. You know… for a sadistic gun enthusiast." Pauling gulped at this remark. Her stomach tightened, and she suddenly realized that her body was still stiff and not prepared for a twenty minute walk up a snowy hill.

"Could you… Could you…come with me?"

"I wish I could, but Helen didn't hire me. And, like you said; better a sadistic killer than her." Pauling laughed for the first time today. The mere effort put into that laughter made her light headed in this cold.

"If you want to visit Russia again someday, give me a call. You don't look like other twenty year olds around here." He grinned, running his hand through his thick, grayish brown hair.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" Sergej went back in the car.

"Let's put it like this. I am 28." He looked at Pauling who looked both disgusted and amazed.  
"So you could only imagine how our women look like." He shuddered.

Pauling waved to him as he slowly backed away. Then she took one ominous step on the white snowy blanket. As she finally managed to put her foot down with a groan, three things were perfectly clear to her:

One: She hated Vicodin;

Two: She forgot almost all the Russian she knew;

Three: She will never willingly go to Russia again.

* * *

The climb to the top was excruciating, nicely put. After five minutes, Pauling was exhausted, breathing like she was going to collapse at any moment, falling in the white snow like a drunken penguin and cursing as she got back up. She was about to give up. Maybe he isn't even here, she said as she lay on the ground. Maybe I can go back and say that he wasn't interested. She looked up at the sky. It was completely white. The only things that stood out on this nature's perfect canvas were her footprints, long and deep, stretching all the way from the macadam to her motionless body. Pauling found herself humming. In any other scenario, a scene like this would be relaxing, but it only reminded her that she was completely lost. To add injury to insult, (yes, injury to insult) her legs went numb, and were possibly turning blue due to frostbite. Suddenly, she saw something. It was a thin grey line, flying over the sky. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No. It was smoke.

And where there's smoke…

With that thought in mind, Pauling propped herself up and started to walk again, following the smoke. She went faster, now that she knew where she was going. A rich Russian, a gun enthusiast who has his own brand of bullets. He must live here somewhere. Where there's smoke, there's fire. Unless a tree was on fire, that smoke was coming from a chimney. A chimney means that the house was a larger one. Most certainly belonging to a rich man. A rich Russian man, a gun enthusiast, with his own brand of bullets. Pauling powered through the snow, her sweat turning to ice the longer she walked. After five minutes, she could see the chimney. After ten minutes, she could see the high cherry roof. And after fifteen minutes, she could see the house. It was a magnificent estate, a two story mansion worthy of a man with such reputation. The windows were painted white, and covered with thick red curtains from the inside. The entire house was made out of red brick. Fifty mushroom stairs bordered with carved white railings led up to the main entrance, a two wing oak door, lacquered for a shiny finish. A stone chimney raised up into the heavens. Miss Pauling leaned back to take a better look at it, never feeling smaller in her entire life.

"Shiiiit." She managed, her brain failing to comprehend the actual size of this house, and failing to function altogether. After three minutes, she came up to the door, cursing the slippery narrow steps she had to climb. She squeezed her arms tightly and looked at the door knob. It was a metal knob, decorated with a gargoyle. Tacky, in Pauling's opinion. She grasped the gargoyle and slammed it on the door three times. It let out a loud echo, which made Pauling jitter. She waited for about ten seconds before she heard vague thumps in the distance. They grew louder, almost sounding like cannons being fired. Suddenly, Vodka Drukenski opened the door. He was frowning, looking at Pauling judgmentally, like a mountain bear somebody just woke up. To say that Pauling was terrified would be an understatement. And that is when Pauling forgot to speak.

"Oh, hi, ummm… ahem…" she stood up straight, trying to ignore the ice melting from her eyebrows and sliding down her face.

"Приветствую вас, кандидата. У меня есть новости из крупной организации, которую вы предоставили интерес в вашем письме, направленном в августе. Смогу ли я собираюсь в обсуждении и мелочи, да?"

Suddenly, the burly man smiled. He opened the door slightly for Miss Pauling to come in.

"How about we speak English instead? I have feeling I must understand what the hell you saying, and not other way." He said calmly.

Pauling blushed, walking into his home she suddenly felt her legs. She felt horrible pain and fell to the floor. The man hoisted her up. That was definitely the last time she ever went to Russia.

* * *

Vodka Drukenski was sitting in his lounge that late September afternoon. He was re-reading his favorite book, _Tsar Hunger_ by Leonid Andreyev. He had his feet up on an antique velvet ottoman, and listened to Mozart on his gramophone. He took a sip of vodka, which was now running through his veins instead of blood, much like in any Russian man's body. He looked at the big windowpane, frost decorating it like the finest white lace. The snow outside was blindingly white, like an inside of a person's eyeball after his beloved Sasha disfigures his victim's face so badly, the eyes pop out. The sight reminded him of sandwiches his mother made. He remembered one morning in particular. It was the 13th of August, and Vodka was walking through the thick snow in his assassin training camp. He was ten years old, and that is when he first had a chance to use one of his bullets. His first kill was a young boy named Nikolai. The bullet was quick and ruthless. Nikolai's blood stained the thick white blanket of snow, making it pink and girly. Vodka leaned over him to pick up his fallen eyeball. It was miraculously white. Perfection in the chaos of imperfection. He then ate a sandwich his mother sent him earlier that day. He could still remember the scent of bologna and death. Vodka let out a nostalgic sigh. Suddenly, his reminiscence was interrupted by three knocks on the door. Vodka was irritated, he wasn't expecting company. He fixed his robe and stepped off his couch, hoisting himself up to his stubby legs with a grunt. He waddled to the main entrance. He went through a long corridor, decorated with many hunting trophies: bears, mountain lions, Asians… The decorations worked perfectly in the mostly red surrounding, lit up by the soft candlelight coming from the vintage chandeliers. He opened the large entrance door with a squeak. He was facing a frightened little woman, clutching her shoulders. She was a tiny thing, her cat-eyed glasses covering up most of her face and her parka making her look chubby. Her legs resembled those of an antelope; skinny and crooked. She spoke something in Russian. Vodka knew it wasn't perfect Russian. All that he could manage to understand was that she was from a big corporation and something about a letter in August. He suddenly remembered what this was about. This must've been about the Team Fortress account. He sent a letter expressing his will to join RED, and still waited for their response. As happy as he was about the messenger, he was disappointed that she was so confused and looked weak, much like a little baby animal.

"How about we speak English instead? I have feeling I must understand what the hell you saying, and not other way." He suggested. He struggled with English, but could still understand it well. The woman looked relieved as he let her come inside. She suddenly fell to the floor, with a gasp. Being the calm and calculated man, Vodka picked her up. The poor thing was freezing. He took her to the lounge, and brought her a large plaid blanket. When Sasha got cold, he would do the same thing. He loved that gun of his. The woman thanked Vodka before returning to her shivering. He wasn't sure what to think of this woman. She was weak and annoying, like a housecat, but she managed to find him hidden in the snowy hills, so she was determined and brave, like a Russian bear.

"Mister Drukenski…" she started after her jitters have stopped; "I am here concerning your letter of… AHUUUGH-HUGH-HUGH!" she coughed loudly.

"Da, this I know. Letter I sent ten days ago. Honestly, I expected letter, not messenger." Vodka said.

"Well, my employer thinks that you would be good for a position at Team Fortress." She said in a croaked voice, sniffing.

"Good." Vodka leaned over to her; "Your team has…potential. But team is still babies. I want to make team good. Make team stronger." He looked at Pauling, who nodded at him. "Mostly I want to go to America." Vodka slouched in his chair, Mozart's requiem playing in the distance. His face turned somber, the golden fire from the fireplace illuminating it.

"Not enough crime in Russia. When there is crime, I don't get enough money. I need money for someone special to me. She…she is my baby."

"What's her name?" Pauling wiped off some snot with her sleeve.

"Just one moment." The Russian man lazily got up, walking up to a large mahogany closet. He opened it and rummaged through it, like an excited child opening his Christmas present. Pauling was confused.

_Russians keep their wives in closets? How do they fit in there? Nice one Pauling, the man keeps his wife in the closet and you're wondering how they fit in there! It doesn't have to be a wife. It could be his daughter. Little girls are smaller… Yep. I definitely have a fever._

"This." Vodka said as he pulled out a large mini-gun from the closet. "This is my baby."

"Whoap." Exclaimed Pauling, surprised.

"She weighs one hundred fifty kilograms and fires two hundred dollar, custom-tooled cartridges at ten thousand rounds per minute.  
It costs four hundred thousand dollars to fire this weapon... for **twelve seconds**"

"Impressive."

"I make custom bullets for her from the coins I collect. I melt them down. The caliber is classified, so enemy can't use my weapon. But Sasha…" he gesture to his heavy mini gun he held with his thumb and index finger. "Sasha can destroy them."

This man was a lunatic. Possibly the craziest man Pauling has seen since… yesterday. But John Doe was a different case. Now she understood why Helen liked lunatics. They were the best mercenaries. They were crazy enough to kill someone, and crazy enough to follow her orders.

"Is me hired?" asked Vodka.

"Almost. We have to get you to America for tests. But you will possibly be hired." Pauling let her head drop on the sofa. Vodka's face lightened up. Suddenly, he picked up Pauling up in the air and started dancing with her around the room.

"Leetle woman, you make me so happy!"

"Thanks, big guy." She said. "But we still have to get to America."

They left on the nine o'clock flight. Vodka carried Pauling in one hand and Sasha in the other. Airport security made an exception, after the head of the Moscow airport got a little phone call from Helen. During the flight, Heavy sang and tapped his feet excitedly like a happy child, while Pauling muttered something about the color orange, feeling feverish.

"Last time I go to Russia… no, Sophie, purple! Purple! That is not orange!" she muttered, her eyes slowly closing.

* * *

Vodka passed all of his tests with flying colors. He did excellently on his strength test, his… Well, that's about it. But it was good enough for TF. He also wrote an impressive article on _War and Peace_ for his intelligence test. And they said a PhD in Russian literature wouldn't come in handy. But a problem occurred after his memory was erased. He slept for over thirteen hours. Helen and Pauling stood in their new Heavy's designated sleeping quarters, Helen huffing with rage. Miss Pauling's fever cleared up, but could still barely manage to keep her eyes open most of the time.

"The man isn't asleep, he's comatose. Our mercenaries cannot simply sleep for thirteen hours. This is unacceptable." Helen droned on and on while Pauling tried to stop herself from giggling.

"Just wake him up and tell him he's fired." Demanded Helen. "How do you wake up someone who is in a blackout?" Pauling's mind immediately went back to that terrible plane ride, where she was ever-so-gently woken up by a fat assed stewardess.

"Slap him." She joked with a smile. She accidentally caught Helen's demanding gaze.

"Do it."

There was no way that a young, frail woman like herself would ever dare slap a man who talked to her about his first kill at the ripe age of ten, who prided himself in being the strongest man in Russia, who listed fifty possibilities of killing a man with a single custom made bullet, and none of those ways included shooting the person. Pauling turned her head towards the grey metal hall.

"Ichabod!" it echoed through it. The young intern's steps were immediately heard.

"You call a man beneath you to do your dirty work?" Helen's eyes narrowed. She took Pauling's silence as a simple "yes".

"I have taught you well." Suddenly, the young man ran into the room, wheezing and panting like an injured dog.

"Slap him." commanded Pauling, gesturing towards the sleeping Russian. Ichabod didn't even ask why. He slowly approached the mercenary's bed, crouching above him. He looked at Helen, who gave him an approving nod. She wanted to get this over with, to fire the man. Ichabod gulped, stretching out his long, skinny arm trying to get a good swing. And that is when Vodka's eyes popped open.

Vodka wasn't always living in a lap of luxury. What he earned through life was all because of his hard work, sweat and craftiness. He was born in a poorer part of Russia, in a coal miner's family. He was the youngest of four kids, and considered the runt of the family. His two brothers and his sister all became assassins. The money they wired to their parents was paid out in blood. Vodka did something other than killing cowards; he produced high quality bullets, selling the lesser ones at high price, and keeping the superior ones for himself. Or, rather, keeping the superior ones for his unworthy victims. He slowly built up a reputation in all of Russia, which made him a target for many assassination attempts. Many of them occurred while he was asleep. This made him edgy, so as soon as he felt to breeze as Ichabod raised his hand to slap him, Vodka woke up. He swung his giant fist straight at the young man's face. Ichabod flew into to wall, whooshing between Pauling and Helen. As he comically hit the beige wall, he slid down, leaving a thin trail of blood coming out of the back of his skull. Three of his teeth were laying on the floor, and blood gushed out his jaw. As the teeth started to vanish off the floor, it was clear to Helen that Vodka had killed the man with a single blow. This made her reconsider her decision about firing him.

"Pauling." she turned to her assistant; "I have some business to attend to. Get him to the resupply room in twenty minutes. Don't be late." She walked out the door, leaving the two. Heavy contemplated his surroundings, still under effect of the memory eraser.

"Your uniform is in the dresser." Said Pauling gesturing the small oak dresser opposing him.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after Heavy finally understood that he was, in fact, recruited, he and Pauling made their way to the resupply room. He carried a rack of bullets over his shoulder, and hauled Sasha with him. He slept with the gun in his hands, as per Pauling's request. She remembered that he asked for a first class ticket for Sasha when they flew to New Mexico. The man really loved his gun.

"Well, here we are." Pauling gestured towards the door. She brought a young man earlier in this room. She knew that there were five people already in the room, and one Soldier who spent five days on the field, not wanting to move.

"Heavy…" he started. He picked up Pauling in his arms, giving her a long bear hug and making her lose her breath.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome, big guy." She huffed as she finally got down. When she did, she saw a man standing behind her. It was a slim, tall man, wearing a red suit and a matching balaclava. He looked at Pauling with an uninterested gaze. Suddenly her heart started pounding fast and loud.

"Hi." She said stupidly.

The man sighed as he took out a cigarette from his cigarette box. Pauling warned him about smoking being prohibited, when she looked into his icy blue eyes.

"I'll make an exception this time." She smiled at him.

"_Mademoiselle_…" he fixed his red tie and asked in his strong French accent which made her tremble; "When I came here earlier, zhere was no problem with zees." He gestured to his cigarette; "I would hate zees to be an inconvenience." He tried not to stare at the giant mini-gun the giant behind Pauling hauled over.

The Frenchman had the core of a gentleman, but the French exterior of a self-righteous dick. Still, Pauling found it irresistible. He has been in the resupply room before, when she brought the young man in, and was earlier going over a few details with Helen concerning his employment. The first time Pauling saw him, she hid behind the wall, hoping that he won't see her. But he did, as a good Spy sees all.

"It…it won't be a problem, Sir." She smiled stupidly. The Frenchmen input the password, and the door opened with a series of satisfying clicks.

"_Mademoiselle, _you are as understanding as you ahre lovely." He smiled at her before going into the room and lighting up his cigarette. Pauling giggled like a silly schoolgirl. She then realized that the obese Russian was behind her the entire time.

"I'm sorry." She blushed.

"Do not worry." He leaned over to her; "French people make me laugh, too."

"Pauling!" Helen appeared in front of her office. "You are requested in the laboratory."

"Excuse me..." Pauling walked around Heavy. The Russian stepped into the resupply room.

"..._non,_ I am a belly dancer from Barbados." said the Frenchman ironically to a young man sitting on a bench.

"Ey, quit your bullshittin'!" the boy commanded. He suddenly looked at Heavy who had just walked into the room, the door shutting behind him. He was looking around the room, already dissapointed in his teammates.

"You, you is Russian, right?" he asked, tapping his feet against the floor. Heavy nodded.

"See? See? I told yas I could tell nationalities! I told yas!" he irritated the tall man sitting next to him, adjusting his fingerless gloves.

"Alroite, you win, momma's boy. You have a gift. Now piss off."

"Don't call me momma's boy, brah! Think of a better insult!" The tall man sighed.

"Roite then. Piss off, wanker." The boy went silent for a second or so.

"That's bettah... I guess."

Heavy walked up to the wall, looking closely at his teammates. A black man was chugging down another bottle of Scrumpy. A man wearing a hard hat was screaming at the line going dead, upset over something he had just heard. Could this be? Could the team be so... useless.

"Useless babies." said Heavy to himself.

"_Ja."_ said a man cleaning his glasses while holding something most resembling a mini gun. "But, it is who ve are stuck vith. Might as vell get used to it."

Heavy looked at the German man. He already liked him. He stretched his hand out for the man to shake it.

"Vodka Drukenski." he presented himself. "I am Heavy." The man's eyes shined.

"Heimlich Dienstag. I am ze Medic." His handshake was weak, Heavy thought. Well, no one is perfect.

"Zo, you are Drukenski." the Medic looked at him. "Tell you what, I haff a feeling I can trust you. Just stay in front of me in battle, and I fill protect you."

The Medic gestured to the Medi Gun, as he presented it. They spent the rest of the waiting period talking about classic Russian books, doves and their unnatural obsession with blood. The Medic kept saying how Vodka should stick with him at all times. While Heavy was grateful for his offer, he couldn't help but wonder why this man was so obsessed with helping him.


	6. Medic

A cold December night in Oslo, Norway. Many people gathered in the University of Oslo, anxiously awaiting the speaker to come on stage and pronounce the award winners. The attendants were the crème de la crop of the scientific society. The orchestra was playing _Symphony No. 40_ by Mozart during the intermission. Many of the refined individuals gibbered among themselves, mentioning something they heard had happened in the Norwegian royal family. Most of those tales were conspiracy theories and absolute nonsense, but it was enough to keep the otherwise brilliant minds occupied and entertained. Their high pitched voices and high-brow type bursts of laughter blended with the symphony, until it sounded like an ode to human shallowness. Here they were, in the perhaps most important night concerning the scientific world, and they giggled about something they had heard about the Queen Sonja being pregnant before the royal wedding and later aborting her child. The words like "common decency" and "moral decadence" fluttered across the room, irritating the quieter attendants. They irritated a certain German, in particular. He was sitting in a gilded chair, covered with red velvet. The entire stage was decorated in that manner. The aristocrats looked stunning, all in their immaculate tuxedos and long, shiny gowns. "Why yes, it was quite expensive, darling." a woman laughed to her friend in the distance. The men accepting the awards were all dressed in black, much like funeral home owners. The German wore a grey jacket and dark pants, not particularly caring about how he looked, but caring only for the prize. The beautiful million dollar prize, which he could say, marked his entire existence. His entire medical career, nay, his entire life led up to this moment. It wasn't the Nobel Peace prize, he knew better than that. He has done nothing in his life to deserve it. But this was the year that he will walk home with the Nobel Prize in Medicine. This was the year that he had finally perfected his revolutionary invention; a way to cure people in need quickly, without using stitches, disinfectant or even as much as a simple band-aid. It was simply a matter of regenerating cells, through a series of radioactive stimulation, the radioactive substance being, of course, Australium, the rarest and most powerful substance known to man. Many were skeptical of the German. How could he possibly heal something by using enough radioactive rays to kill an elephant in two minutes?

"Only if he keeps completely still." was his argument. Three seconds would put a decapitated man back together, provided that he is still breathing. And three seconds of radiation, and maybe a small chance of going bald, isn't too hard for a human to handle.

Suddenly, the music had stopped, and the high-class gibbering with it. A man walked on stage. He was a chubby fellow, his eyes open slightly. This was the German's category. He slouched in his chair and nervously played with his fingers, rolling over his thumbs. The spotlights shined over the man's face, making him look like a golden statue. He slowly announced the nominees, and the audience applauded after hearing each man's accomplishment. The German didn't move. Suddenly, the man spoke his name in a low monotone.

"…and, lastly, Heimlich Dienstag, for his study of molecular reparation and use of Australium in surgical procedures."

The German crossed his fingers, ignoring the applause. His muscles tightened, and he held in his breath.

"And the award winner is…" the man carefully opened a white envelope he held in his hand. The crowd went silent.

"Heimlich Dienstag."

The doctor laughed with pleasure, and struggled not to run on stage with joy, the applause of the audience roaring behind him. He stepped on the polished boards. Heimlich's hand reached towards the presented award. All that hard work was finally worth it. Suddenly, he heard a sound. The award seemed to disappear for a moment. The hall went silent, except a short ringing sound that repeated every three seconds. Suddenly the stage started to vanish. First the award, then the audience. The German felt uneasy. His palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy. There was vomit on his jacket already, wife's spaghetti.

"No!" gasped Heimlich. "Nein! Stop it, I was so close!" he screamed into the dark oblivion he was falling into. The boards cracked beneath his feet, and he waved his arms around the darkness, hoping to grab on to something, anything. And the damn noise was still there. The loud, painful ringing. He cursed as he fell deeper into the void, confused and disoriented. Suddenly, he recognized the sound. Was that… was that his phone?

* * *

He woke up from another Nobel Prize winning dream. He was laying on the old grey sofa in his living room, where he usually slept. As he woke up, his head was riddled by a mix of emotions. He was relieved that he has woken up from that nightmare, disappointed about not getting his hands on the prize, and angry at himself, for letting those thoughts about winning come to mind. The award ceremony was in about three months or so, and he has only been nominated. He blinked heavily, staring at the phone, which was still ringing.

"Ja, hallo?" he croaked as he finally managed to grasp the smooth handle, and somehow bring it close to his face. "Wem hat gestorben?"

_"Heimlich, me ol' chum! Don't tell me yer getting an award!" _said the man on the other end, without any introduction needed. Heimlich knew only one man stupid and/or drunk enough to call him at four o'clock in the morning.

"Ah… I see you haff heard." Heimlich rubbed his eyes.

"_Heard? That peppy little nurse of yers practically shouted it in me ear."_ The Medic chuckled. It was four o'clock in the morning, and he has been talking to an old customer of his he met once at a hunting expedition. What started as a hunting mishap, turned into a bar brawl, and ended in what seemed to be a lifelong partnership. He never fully understood the man, even if they had spent hours discussing their head counts and favorite pastimes over the last three years. He could hear the man's groan through the crackly phone line.

"_Anyway, I'm gonna need sem more o'that magic glue you provide." _Heimlich sighed.

"It's not magic glue. It's a special zuper adhesive substance made out of human bone marrow, Australium und coagulated blood. Zhere is no magic in it." The phone man was silent, processing Heimlich's words. "Anyvay, how much vould you need?"

"_Roughly? About… oh I donnoe… about 7 pounds."_ Heimlich finally managed to pop open his eyes. His voice was now slightly angry.

"Are you trying to catch zhat monster again? Because if you are trying vithout me, I swear…"

_"It ain't catching the monster, honest to God." _The man got defensive. _"Something came up. I need it for work."_

Heimlich grabbed his head, leaning on his knee. "You need 7 pounds of adhesive…for work? Vhat kind of work?" The man stuttered, like he was trying to carefully pick the words to describe it.

_"That'd be… uh… demolition and stuff. Don't worry about the job, are you writin' the speech for that award show?" _he awkwardly changed the subject.

"Hah!" the German laughed "_Nein. _I'm not writing a speech for something that may or may not happen in four months."

_"I dunnoe… you do tend to get ahead of yerself."_ Heimlich grew slightly irritated by this conversation. He coughed loudly at the phone.

"Zo, about the adhesive… it won't be cheap."

"_How much would it be?" _the man burped.

"Roughly 2000 dollars. American." Heimlich smiled as the man on the line spat out whatever liquid substance he had in his mouth at the time.

_"What? How'm I supposed to get that kind of money?!"_

"Ve are talking about 7 pounds. I will have to steal an entire skeleton for zhat kind of bone marrow. Cadavers aren't cheap."

_"Ya, but… they're easy to make. You just shoot up a few syringes in their flesh, or whatever you do, and then…"_

"Like you said, I'm nominated for the Nobel Prize. I need to keep a low profile not to ruin my chances. _Und, _stealing a skeleton is a risk I'm not taking…for free, zhat is." The man on the other end hiccupped.

"_I'll see what I can do about the money." _He mumbled. "_'ave you told yer wife yet?"_

Heimlich looked over to his wife, sleeping in their bed. She was stretched over it, her mouth half opened and snoring. The covers were tucked between her slim white thighs, and her hands lifted on the large pillow. Heimlich looked away from her in disgust.

"_Wem? _That old hag?" the two men chuckled. They both knew that in Heimlich's life, there was only one woman, one human being he cared for.

And it sure as hell wasn't his wife.

* * *

Heimlich slowly walked out of his apartment earlier that day, his keys rattling in his hand. The big green door shut behind him. His wife was a nuisance, as usually. She called him a murderer a couple of times before he even sat down to get some breakfast. When he reached for the gilded door knob, anxious to get out, a sharp metal object whooshed past him. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, freshly sharpened, and stuck in a wooden door. It missed him by an inch.

"Your aim is as bad as your cooking." he said to his wife apathetically. "My mother was right about you."

"Murderer!" she screamed at him, before furiously stomping back to the kitchen, possibly to get another knife. Heimlich sighed as he pulled it out of the wood, and shook his head when he saw the small mark it left on the door. Now the front of their door was decorated with thirty seven small abrasions, which his wife threw at him between April and August. They will need to get that fixed. He wondered if Berger could get him a discount for a new door. He rushed down the stairs, he was already thinking about her. The apartment building reeked of mildew and suffering, a scent that felt ever so lovely whenever he left his horrid apartment. As he opened the big metal door, the hot sun shined upon his face, making him squirm.

It was a warm summer morning in Stuttgart, a city in which Heimlich was born and raised. A lot of things changed since he was a child. The Hippocratic Oath was now mandatory for all doctors, as well as a degree. Heimlich was always ridiculed by the younger doctors, shaking their diplomas around like a common whore shakes her tits. He wasn't taken seriously as a doctor, because of his high death count, and a high school drop-out. They never understood the suffering he had to endure as a young boy, having to end his education and help out in war. Everything he had learned about the human anatomy, he had learned from exploring it, digging his hands deep into the flesh to recover the bullet, severing the limbs after they become a pain to look at, and a pain to use. In reality, he knew more about the human body than any of his so-called competition.

Besides, they aren't the ones getting nominated for a Nobel Prize, so they can all just suck his…

Suddenly, his gaze fell upon a small silver plaque on the side of a large stone building. On it, the words "_Varicella __Straße"_ were engraved. He read it, and smiled. Behind this corner, there was his other home. Behind this corner, there were his doves. Behind this corner, there she was.

He smiled as he took a turn to the right, passing through the slightly unkempt street. A couple of witling larches were planted along the pavement, to decorate the lesser street in Stuttgart. It was a poorer neighborhood, and in it was his private practice. People often came here for quick, scar free operations. He earned some cash on it, but not as much as he needed to support his unhealthy obsession with collecting vintage surgical equipment. He made some extra cash by organ trafficking, and by making deals with the Scot he met at a hunting trip, which later became known as the biggest disaster ever to hit Scotland since _The Great Haggis Food Poisoning_ of 1903. These businesses included a material which was produced by his first experimentation with his Medi Gun, as his sweetheart jokingly called it. The Medi Gun didn't heal people as much as it helped decay their flesh, but the molecular bonding mixture he originally had in mind turned out to be a strong adhesive, capable of sticking any material onto any surface. His friend never said what exactly he needed it for, but as long as he paid, Heimlich didn't care.

He stood outside a smaller building, the words _"Dienstag's Traceless Surgery"_ written in black letters. As he put the key in the door, his hand shook. He was just so happy to see her again. He ran inside and closed the door behind him, his heart beating wildly. And there she stood, looking like a vision in her white nurse uniform. The bright white light shined on her face, and her pudgy little body. Her big brown eyes looked at him, sparkling with a strange, unnatural glow. She curled her short blonde hair around her finger, playing with it. She flashed him a smile, showing him all her of her lovely straight teeth. She was sitting on her desk, her stubby legs were crossed, and her small arm placed on her thick thigh. The woman was about 41, but looked like a young girl. She was about five inches shorter than Heimlich, so when she ran over to him, hugging him tightly, his chin rested comfortably on her head. She smelt of chocolate and wild roses, just like the day he first met her.

It was about the time the war was officially over. The Germans were getting defeated, and Heimlich couldn't fight to protect himself. He was secluded in a cellar, among some German officers who were brought in to be healed. They were safe there, but supplies were scarce and there was no way that they could be there for too long. One day, Heimlich snuck out late at night to acquire more supplies. He was caught by a Soviet while sneaking out the pharmacy out of the broken window, some bandages and alcohol in his hands. The Soviet pointed a standard issue SKS rifle at him. He lived a good life, he thought. He helped some people, earned money off the people he couldn't help. He had never been intimate with a woman, though only because he despised all human beings. He looked up in the sky and watched some doves fly by. It was such a calming sight.

Suddenly, the Soviet shrieked. A large bloody wound was on her leg, and it hurt her as she tried to approach him. Heimlich was impressed with this woman, carrying out her duties even with a gaping wound like that. At that point, he felt sorry for her. It was a strange feeling, especially given the fact that she could kill him at any moment. He picked up some of the supplies he had stolen and told her to lay on the ground. She did, her rifle pointing at his head. He gave her some of the sanitizing alcohol to drink before he poured it onto the wound. She chugged half the bottle down in a second, as any Russian would. She didn't scream as he started sewing her flesh back together.

"If you make any sudden move, I shoot." She said sternly. Heimlich was calm and collected. He never really followed the Hippocratic Oath, but he did try to make her as comfortable as possible. He patched her up in the devastated town, destroyed by the bombings and constant fights. He helped her up to her feet.

"You have 30 seconds to run. And I'll forget you existed. Pick up your things and run." she commanded. He quickly did as he was told, running back to the base, apologizing to the howling German officers for being late.

The woman he helped repaid him; she said that there was nothing worth looking for in Stuttgart, so the fellow Soviets continued on. The Nazis lost in the end, but thanks to the Soviet he patched up, Heimlich lived. Soon after the war was over, and after Heimlich burned all the evidence of him ever aiding the Nazis, he found himself looking for that woman again. He was captivated by her penetrating gaze. Somehow, he wasn't disgusted by this fascinating creature. It took him months of searching, but he found his lovely Natasha, standing on _Varicella Straße,_ not wearing her army uniform, but wearing a long white dress and a big smile. As soon as he saw her, Heimlich knew she was the woman for him. She might have not been beautiful, but she was the Dulcinea to his Don Quixote, the Guinevere to his Lancelot, and the Ophelia to his Hamlet.

And the rest is history.

"I missed you so much, _Herr_ Doctor." She gently lifted her leg, the discolored skin visible through her stocking.

"I missed you too, _mein Liebchen." _He moved from her slightly.

He loved her so much. She was the only woman he could talk to, and the only woman he ever made love to. She made him think that he stopped hating humans so much. To test his theory, he went out with Julia, the most beautiful girl in Stuttgart. He felt nothing when he was with her, though she did, and wanted to see him again. Knowing that his friends or his family would never approve of him dating an obese Soviet girl, he went out with Julia once again. He loved the respect he got from the men in the town, praising him for getting a beautiful girl like Julia. He never told them how much he truly hated her. He kept returning to his Natasha, telling her that Julia is a nuisance and means nothing to him. Natasha believed him. Less so when he actually got married to the girl. But she trusted her beloved, as he came to see her every day. Meanwhile, he was extremely frigid towards his wife. They have been married for years when he told her at dinner that he had no intention of starting a family with her. Julia was in shock and accused him of killing all her hopes and dreams. She called him a murderer and a psychopath, but he didn't seem to mind it. In fact, he enjoyed the show. And after the show, he went straight back to Natasha. He was always a bit cross with her, because she made him believe that he could love another woman as much as he loved her.

He pressed his lips up against hers, making her tremble. Natasha grabbed his shoulders and jokingly pushed him off her.

"_Herr_ Doctor, please, I just cleaned the reception." She grabbed a small sheet of paper.

"Can we go over patients first?"she said clutching the rattling paper. Heimlich smiled at her.

"_Jawohl, meine Liebe._ Who is first?" He casually walked up to a large metal cage, where he kept his doves. He wanted to keep them flying around, but the Stuttgart Department of Health wouldn't have it. There he kepthis three doves; Socrates, Euripides and Plato. The were sitting on their perch, cooing happily. Heimlich loved doves as much as he loved Natasha. He could just look at them for hours. Doves could never be as stupid as humans could.

"Mrs. Monntag wants to get another mole removed…" started Natasha.

"Again? _Gott in Himmel, _zat voman has more moles zhen she has brain cells." He sighed.

"Maybe you can fix problem like this:" she simulated a decapitation with a swift movement of her right hand. "Then she won't worry about moles."

This is what Heimlich loved about Natasha. She was always cheerful, was quick on the trigger, and had a dark sadistic sense of humor. However, as much as he wanted to laugh at that remark, he sighed.

"Anything else?"

Natasha turned the paper over a couple of times. "No, _Herr_ Doctor."

"Typical." Heimlich leaned over on the reception desk. "A genius has fallen to a… a common… cosmetic surgeon." He spat out with disgust and slammed his fist against the desk. Natasha sighed as she picked the stack of papers and two pens that fell off it.

"Do not get mad, _Herr_ Doctor. It will just be for a couple of months. And then, after you get the prize…"

_"Ja, ja…"_ he shook his head. "But I cannot be zertain that I'll get it." Natasha put the stack of papers back on the desk and grabbed the doctor's shoulders, looking deep into his eyes.

"I am certain. Why can't you be?" she smiled at him. The doctor smiled back.

"_Ach, meine Liebe, _you always know what to say. Even when what you are saying is complete _Scheiße__." _He moved away from the desk and started looking at the birds. Socrates hid his head under his long wing.

_"__Na gut.__" _The doctor said; "Any phone calls while I was away?"

"Oh!" Natasha squealed as she took a small piece of paper with two numbers and names written on it. "One call from Ms. Doofenstein concerning her…"

"Missing tooth. I know." He interrupted her. "Tell her zhat I can see her on Wednesday around noon. Anyzing else?"

"Well, this other call was particularly strange. It was from another company."

_"__Bohn's Pain Free Operations__?_ Asking for the Medi Gun again? Tell him to go screw himself."

"No, no." Natasha shook her head trying not to laugh at his remark. "It is from a company, not some other doctor's office. A man called... His name was… Redmond Mann." Heimlich squinted in the distance. The name didn't ring a bell.

"He said you should call him right away." Heimlich walked around the reception, looking at the soft beige color on the walls. It seemed to relax the patients, but it did nothing for him.

"Vhat is ze company's name?"

"Reliable Excavation and…something, I'm not completely sure…" Natasha tried to read her messy cursive handwriting. "They said something about employing you." Heimlich was skeptical.

"Employing me? A doctor? For excavation? Are they_Dummkopfs_ or something?"

"It wouldn't hurt to call them." Natasha said shyly. She quickly turned her head away as the doctor looked back at her with a skeptical gaze.

"You know… to tell them where they can shove their offer if it doesn't suit you." She gave him a careful smile. He smiled back, walking into his office.

"You are right as always, _meine Liebe_. I'll call them right away." He walked up to the large white door on the side of the room. "I don't want to give the _Dummkopfs _too much of my time, though."

"I am always right, _Herr_ Doctor." Natasha flashed him a sexy look before she sat back at her desk. Heimlich shut the door behind him, his heart still beating wildly.

* * *

The Medic's office was a larger square room on the side of the building. It was painted in light brown, and the broad daylight came through two square windows on one side. He never quite liked the general atmosphere in his office, so, to make it more bearable to be in, he decorated it with a couple of things he brought from the war. His most prized possession was a perfectly preserved skeleton he "lifted" off an American Soldier who walked into Berlin. The skeleton was placed upon a stand next to a bookshelf. It was a fine piece, about 5 foot ten inches tall, all of his teeth and bones intact. The bone marrow has been taken out to make some bonding agent for his customers, but removing it did nothing harmful to the exquisite ivory bones. A file cabinet was in the corner, overflowing with many files and documents he never had time to clean up. For a German, he wasn't very keen on keeping things organized, so the file cabinet looked like it was going to blow any minute. He sat at his large auburn desk, on which he kept a cardboard box of files which couldn't get in the cabinet, a bright red phone and a copy of today's newspaper, placed there by Natasha and opened on the obituary page. She was so thoughtful. As much as Heimlich loved to browse the pictures of the dearly departed, today he had to deal with the phone call. He was about to pick up the smooth phone handle, when he heard the reception phone ring. Normally, he wouldn't be startled by this, but today, a strange feeling rushed through his veins, like he could sense a bad omen.

"_Hallo, _Dienstags spurlose Chirurgie…" he could hear Natasha talk in her clumsy German, overly articulating the wrong syllables. This is one of the many reasons why he preferred to talk to her in English. Suddenly, he heard her stutter.

_"Na, gut… _ahem, I mean, I will forward him to you." A red flashing light appeared on the Medic's intercom.

"_Herr_ Doctor?" Natasha chirped; "Redmond Mann is on line 1."

"_Danke." _he muttered as his fingers clasped the handle. He took a deep breath as he brought the phone close to his face. The red plastic felt incredibly cold.

"_H-h-hallo?"_ he gulped, trying to control his voice. The man on the other line had the voice of an old crone, croaking at the doctor in a strong English accent. His voice seemed electronic, somehow, but it didn't intimidate Heimlich.

At least, not a lot.

_"Hello, good doctor. How have you been?"_

Heimlich tried to keep a calm tone. But the man's crackly voice made him edgy, so he ended up talking in an angry manner, opening up a drawer of his office desk and fidgeting with an antique 18th century forceps, a silvery stork resembling clamp which was always one of his preferred tools.

"Who ist this? What is this call concerning?"

"_My, my. You do seem to be a little…edgy."_ Heimlich was throwing the forceps around in his hand. He asked the man again:

"What is this call concerning?"

_"I have done a small background check on you, mister Dienstag. A Nobel Prize nominee? That is quite an accomplishment."_

"Vhat do you vant?" Heimlich was anxious to put down the phone, but still wanted to hear out this man, who was capable of frightening him by just talking on the phone with him.

_"I have spoken to your secretary earlier. She seems like a nice girl, I might say. A bit too peppy for my taste, though. I suppose that she has already told you what I called about."_

"_Ja._ My employment. Sadly, Sir, I already have a job." The line went silent for a second.

_"Ah, yes. The cosmetic surgeon." _The doctor tried to ignore this remark, but the more he struggled, the more his right eye twitched.

"I am not _ein _cosmetic surgeon." He managed to say through his teeth. "And I'm afraid I have no business talking to you right now. Goodbye, Sir."

_"I'm afraid, mister Dienstag," _Redmond interrupted him; "_that your business depends on you talking to me."_ Redmond caught Heimlich's attention. He brought the phone back to his ear, still opening the forceps nervously.

"Vhat kind of business are ve talking about?" he asked.

_"That is too important of an issue to discuss over the phone. I'm afraid we are going to have to meet… in person."_

"And if I refuse?" Heimlich grinded his teeth. The office was suddenly cold, the only sound that could be heard was from Redmond's malicious laughter crackling through the phone lines.

_"Oh, Sir. I'm afraid you can't refuse."_

Natasha's scream. A blinding light. The phone line going dead instantly. That is all Heimlich remembered now. He fell to his desk, not waking up for hours, so it seemed. When he finally came to, the same sentence played in his head over and over again, like a bad tune a man can't get out of his mind once he had heard it.

"_Oh, Sir. I'm afraid you can't refuse."_

* * *

Heimlich found that many people experience unconsciousness differently. But this was the first time he had experienced it firsthand. He felt like he had simply gone to sleep and woke up a couple of hours later, with a mild headache. A couple of large flashing spots appeared in front of his eyes, and everything he heard was distorted and fuzzy, much like whispering. He could make out an older woman's voice getting louder and louder.

"Mister Dienstag? Are you awake?"

He blinked once to clear his vision. He was in a large waiting room, sitting on a small red chair. The walls were painted red, and a scarlet floor to floor carped was spread across the room. He had no idea on how he had gotten there, and he felt like he was in a dream. He clenched his stiff fingers, only to realize that his antique forceps was still tucked in his hand. It glimmered against the faint light coming from the windows.

"Mister Mann will see you now."

The woman in front of him was an old girl in her eighties. She had a soft expression on her face, and constantly kept her eyes half closed the entire time, making it appear that she was sleepy. She wore a large red dress and a small clip board. Heimlich noticed the color red dominating the entire room. He slowly got up, half aware that this was really happening. The crumbling floorboards squeaked under his feet. He followed the old woman, leading him down a long hallway. He looked at the paintings decorating the estate. There were quite a few Kicasso paintings, mostly from his "Hunted in the Jungle" period. Whoever this Mann man was, he had an exquisite, and expensive, taste. The woman seemed nice enough, and Heimlich immediately worked out that she was his assistant. She reminded him of his grandmother. She had the same soft wrinkles around her loving eyes, and her long snow white hair was tucked in a neat bun. She was quiet, and she walked slowly and humbly, trying not to impose anything. A spitting image of Mrs. Dienstag.

It was a shame that Heimlich always hated his grandmother.

"I do apologize for the kidnapping, mister Dienstag." She said softly.

"It's alright. At least I know zhat zhe man means business."

They approached a large grey door. Two scarlet letters were painted on it. Two Rs. Above it was a mural of the Swiss mountains.

"One last thing." Said the old woman as she slowly opened the door; "Don't shake his hand even if he offers. He forgets sometimes."

* * *

The image before Heimlich was impressive, to say the least. An old man was sitting behind a great metal desk. Old may have not been an appropriate word. The man was in his late 140s, a sickly man who almost lost all of his hair, and developed liver spots the size of fists over his face. He was bare bones, the expensive red suit her wore was falling off him. His hands shook and made random uncontrolled movements, which would make any person shriek. The old woman stood beside him, a soft smile on her face.

But that was not the impressive part.

The only thing keeping the man alive was a bulky metal construction built around his desk. It contained a heart rate monitor, a monitor for keeping track of brain activity, a large drip distributing liquid and minerals straight into the man's blood stream via a small black tube leading from the end of the bag right into his arm, held by a piece of cotton and a stick of tape. A few dozen dials monitoring every nook and cranny of the man's body were distributed around the large metal cases held over the man. At least one tube went out of each instrument, and went into the man's cranium, making him look like a marionette. And, lastly, two large spotlights flashed in his old decaying face, providing him with the needed vitamin D. Heimlich dropped his jaw in awe. He gazed at a life extending machine. His Medi Gun looked like a band aid in comparison.

"Mister Dienstag." The man said. "I'm glad you could make it."

Heimlich smiled as he hid the forceps behind his back.

"You vanted to see me, _Herr _Mann?"

The man lifted his upper lip to speak. It looked like unrolling a lifeless cloth under his nose.

"Yes, mister Dienstag." He nodded over to his assistant, who slowly walked up to a painting. The painting depicted three men, one was sitting in a chair with a sophisticated look on his face. There was a man on each side. On the left, a tall muscular man flashing his perfect smile, his red suit and hat standing hike he was born with them. His fine pointy moustache struck straight into the air. An idealistic interpretation of Redmond Mann, one might assume. On the right, a sickly greenish man, wearing a big blue suit, growling at the other man and showing off his rotting teeth. Strangely enough, this one also had a similar moustache, but not quite as impeccable.

"Do you know where you are?" croaked the man.

"A big manor belonging to some crazy rich man?" guessed the German.

"No." the assistant pressed a small button near the picture. It started to move, showing a bright window. The sudden rush of light almost burned the doctor's eyeballs.

"A big manor belonging to some crazy rich man, who will control the world with this land!" he coughed. The land before him was a desert wasteland in New Mexico. Heimlich lifted his eyebrow as he looked around the room. The bright light made him look at the other pictures in the large room. There were seven pictures around on the walls. On them was a team. Heimlich didn't know what kind of team, but all the pictures showed nine men. The oldest picture was taken in 1850, and was in sepia, and looked quite tattered. It also had Abraham Lincoln holding a flame thrower.

"You see, " continued the man "over the past century, I have gathered nine of the deadliest mercenaries the world has ever seen. These mercs were supposed to get all this land for me, the land that my father rightfully left me in his will. However, my idiot brother, who also happens to be in this will in a silly little partnership, did the same. What was supposed to be a check mate for my team, turned into often ten minute intractable stalemates. And I'm not even sure who's winning anymore."

Heimlich and Redmond's assistant exchanged a look. She knew this entire speech by heart, and signaled Heimlich to "just go with it".

"Still, the Manns never give up. So I am determined to fight my idiot brother until there is nothing to fight about!" He leaned in his chair. "And that's where you come in. You seem like a good enough doctor. And you have a history of fighting in war. A brief one, but what else could you expect from Nazis?"

Heimlich gave a reluctant shrug.

"I have checked your profile. I know all about your past. I know everything about your Scottish partner, and I know about the adhesive you make. And I know about the Australium you got from a thankful Australian after curing his moustache cancer." The German gulped.

"I also know about Natasha. But, then again, everyone knows about Natasha." Heimlich's eyes widened.

"Zhey do?" The old man shook his head.

"All in all, I think you would make a perfectly good…" The man stared at the wall blankly, not making a sound. Heimlich turned around before looking at his assistant.

"Give him a moment." She said softly. "He's just a bit dead."

Suddenly, a rush of electricity flew through the machine, and all the dials and switches went insane and began working at maximum capacity. The man gasped, electricity flying through his body and making him twitch. He grabbed Heimlich by his coat and pulled him closer, making him drop his forceps. The old man's eyes rolled to the back of his head as he tried to formulate a single word.

"I want you to be my combat Medic." He spewed before collapsing on his chair. The German shook, not being able to move.

"The choice is yours."

"Ze choice is mine? Vhy vould I vant to leave my job?"

"So, you are fine with being a cosmetic surgeon?" Heimlich clenched his fists.

"You have an option: either you live your life comfortably, working as a surgeon and getting worldwide recognition for that Nobel Prize…" he clasped his hands together; "…or you run around, shooting people with syringes and healing them with your Medi Gun, acting like a buffoon for a lot of money." Heimlich stroked his chin.

"Tempting…tempting…" the man stared at him.

"Now, I know you can't figure this out immediately, so I will just send you back. The position will be open."

"I'm sure it vill." Heimlich grinned.

Suddenly another flash appeared before his eyes. He woke up back at his desk, the phone line was still dead, and everything was the way it was when he left. At first he thought that it was all a crazy dream. At first. Then he saw the RED application form in front of him, signed by Redmond Mann in blood.

* * *

Heimlich lifted his head from his desk, trying to connect the memory fragments which occasionally popped into his head. The entire meeting seemed like a dream. But if it was a dream, why was the application form here and where was his god damn forceps? He rubbed his forehead and opened the large door of his office. The first thing he saw was Natasha, quietly sobbing at her desk.

"Vhat is ze matter, _meine Liebe?"_ he cooed. Natasha lifted her head up, her mascara smudged over her puffy eyes. She opened her mouth in surprise.

"_Herr_ Doctor!" she shrieked and ran to him, almost knocking him over as she squeezed him tightly.

"Vat iz ze matter, _meine Liebe?_ You seem worried."

Natasha looked at him with an angry expression on her face.

"You have been gone for two days, Doctor! That's what the fucking matter is." She cussed before returning to his embrace, staining his white coat with mascara. "I thought you were dead, _Herr _Doctor. I have been looking everywhere for you. I've even been to…to… to Bohn's clinic. And…and…" she sobbed. Heimlich suddenly noticed something small and fleshy on her desk.

"Iz zat his finger?" he asked. Natasha shrugged, averting her eyes.

"I asked him about you, and he didn't know where you were. I guessed he was lying, so…" she showed him a vague nervous smile. Heimlich chuckled.

"_Meine Liebe_, you vere vorried about me. Shhh… I'm here now. No more tears, OK?" he stroked her soft hair as she slowly calmed down. Still, something didn't seem right. How was he gone for two days?

Heimlich went back home at nine, delaying his return for as long as he could. Julia brewed him a fresh cup of tea. Heimlich grabbed the cup and poured it into a small potted plant in the corner. It died instantly. Rat poison was his first guess.

"Julia…"

"Murderer." He eyes pierced him with the passion of a thousand angry burning suns. Heimlich smiled at her to provoke her.

"Julia, was I really gone for two days?" His wife wasn't confused by this question. She turned to him, giving a large grin.

"I don't care. When you aren't here, you aren't. And when you are here, I wish you weren't." she walked straight back into the kitchen.

Julia came from a strict religious family who always wanted her to marry a rich man. She never knew married life would be so painful. She thought about Heimlich on that warm winter evening when he said that he wasn't interested in starting a family. He single handedly killed all her hopes and dreams of a good life. She then knew that she could only live a good life away from him. Divorce was out of the question, so she figured that it's better to be a happy widow than a pitiful wife. She smiled as she crushed a handful of pills in his dinner. She reminded herself to buy more bleach. Not for cleaning purposes.

Meanwhile, Heimlich learned to live with a homicidal wife. He only ate what he made himself, he never went to sleep before her, and he learned to dodge everything she threw at him. Most wives threw plates at their husbands. His wife threw lit matches and kitchen knives. He popped a couple of mints into his mouth to ease the hunger, knowing that he won't be eating anything tonight. He left the RED application at the office. What were they thinking? There he was, with a successful career, a bright future ahead of him and a great reputation. His life was stable. His job was secure. His life was…boring.

Just then, the phone rang. Heimlich quickly picked it up.

"Hallo?" she swallowed the mints, which resulted in a burnt throat. The man on the other end seemed to be drinking something.

_"I got da money." _He slurred.

"What?" Heimlich tried to recognize the voice.

_"Ah said, I got da money. 2000 dollars. Wired to ya. Now you get me the stuff."_

"You…" Heimlich blinked; "You actually got ze money?"

"_Roight. Now you get me the stuff. I expect them soon."_

"Vell, it isn't zat easy, my friend. I haff to…"

_"Tough break, then. I got the money, you get the stuff. I gotta go now. Send me the adhersive stuff thing later this week. You don't do it, and I break yer legs." _The man burped as the line went dead. Heimlich stood still for a couple of moments, not hanging up the phone. He was now supposed to get himself a skeleton, bone marrow intact, by later this week.

"Well… _Scheiße.__"_

* * *

The next day, Heimlich went over to his office. There was only one operation he had to do. An older man by the name of Bergman. He had recently broken his leg, and needed it to be fixed quickly. He was in his dark operation room, preparing his Medi Gun for the upcoming operation. The Medi Gun was a modified fire hose nozzle wrapped in tape and outfitted with a bottom handle. Not an extremely elegant design, but it gets the job done. He used Australium and a simple medi pack to create this masterpiece. In his life, he collected a single ingot of Australium from a grateful Australian patient after saving his moustache. He still had about half of the ingot, the rest of it was smelted and used to enhance the Medi Gun's healing capacities, and he used a tiny dosage for an adhesive. The adhesive was first created about two years ago. It was first used to mend his patient's bones, but then Heimlich found it to be quite versatile, so he sometimes used it to build some of the furniture he bought in IKEA. His Scottish friend was very interested in it, and often asked him to send some. But seven pounds was more than some. It required an entire human skeleton. Heimlich already gave the man his word, and he was afraid of losing the 2000 dollars.

"_Gute Morgen."_ Said his patient as he lay on his operating desk. He limped to it and then looked around the operation room, looking at all the scalpels and forceps Heimlich used occasionally. Heimlich checked the man's medical history. He was unnaturally scared of metal objects. Even now, his face turned white, and he started shaking.

"Don't worry; I have done this operation a thousand times. Only a couple of them ended…fatally." He said washing his hands. The man's face then turned blue, and gasped for air. He tossed and turned on the cold operation desk, his heart pounding wildly.

Meanwhile, Heimlich paid no mind to him, and thought about the deal he made with the Scot. How could he possibly steal an entire skeleton. He was able to steal a bone or two without the patients noticing. But he only got about one patient a day, now that business is slow. A couple of instruments clanged to the floor as the patient knocked them on the floor. Heimlich ignored him. He took a small scalpel in his hand.

"First off, I'm going to need to adjust the bone. So I'm going to cut your flesh a bit." The terrified man saw the cold steel glisten against the hot operating lamp the doctor turned on.

"Try not to scream too much."

And that was the straw that broke the camel's back. The patient let out a large sigh and collapsed back into the desk. He stopped breathing. Heimlich squinted at the man. He came in to heal a broken bone, and died of cardiac arrest moments later.

"Well, that escalated quickly." Heimlich sighed. By protocol, he needed to state the time of death. By protocol, he should alert the family. But this man had no family. He was an old fat bastard who broke his leg when he fell out of the tub. And suddenly, the doctor had an idea. Not knowing what he was doing, the doctor sliced Bergman's chest open. A small stream of blood went across his fingers. The man was definitely dead. Maybe he never made it to the operation. Who cared for Bergman anyway? He slowly expanded the ribcage, and started pulling out the ribs one by one. He knew things would go his way. He just knew it. The ribs broke with a loud snap, and he put them on a pile He would soon extract the bone marrow from them. Them her proceeded to harvest the pelvic bone, and the collar bone. Then the extremities, and lastly, he took out the skull. What he was left with was a bloody pulp, guts spilling over the desk. He scooped it up in a body bag. His inner maniac had awoken. He showed no fear or remorse when he used an injection to extract the bone marrow, the white substance filling the plastic slowly. The then put the remains in the freezer; organs may come in handy some day. Nobody would miss Bergman, he said to himself. Not even Natasha noticed when the doctor walked out of his operating room, alone. She was too busy reading the obituaries, chuckling.

In about three hours, a single drop of liquid Australium was added to the substance. This made it more stabile, and made the adhesive unable to stick with human flesh. The hot paste was taken out of the microwave, practically glowing. This was so pathetically easy to make once you had the ingredients. And Heimlich was paid a lot of money for every delivery. He laughed at the thought of one measly cadaver giving him a 2000 dollar profit. Human life could be so cheap.

He sent Natasha to go to the post office and deliver the package at five. He rested comfortably in his chair. The Scot he has been doing business with was a man of science as well. He was not quite up to his mental capacity, but he was brilliant nonetheless. It took him barely a day to do what seemed like an impossible mission at first.

But a sneaky suspicion told him that things won't be that easy for him.

The phone rang immediately, confirming his doubt.

* * *

Natasha and Heimlich were sitting quietly in the reception. The large grandfather clock clacked, adding to the general uncomfortable atmosphere. It was around one o'clock in the morning, and exactly eight hours ago, they were both banned from practicing medicine in this building, or virtually anywhere else. Eight hours ago, Heimlich received a phone call from an unknown number. He picked up the phone himself, not having Natasha around to do it for him. A strange, old, crackly voice sent shivers down his spine once more.

_"I know what you did, mister Dienstag. Don't worry, we're here to help."_

The man hung up. Heimlich was scared, terrified, even. How could he possibly know? He was just so careful. His heart started pounding fast, but he managed to control himself when he heard a loud determined knock on the door. It was a man from the department of health.

"…long story short, _meine Liebe, _zat is how I lost my medical license." He buried his head in his hands. "And my nomination with it."

Natasha gently put her hand on his arm, stroking it slowly. When he got fired, she got fired with him. But she was in a better position than him, because she had a place to go. When he called Julia to tell her that he was fired, the first thing he saw when he got home was a suitcase, jammed with his clothes and put in front of the doorway, with a small note attached to it.

"_Goodbye and good riddance."_

_-Julia_

His suitcase was now put in the corner of the reception. Natasha looked deep into the doctor's eyes.

"What will you do now?"

He smiled at her and grabbed her smooth chubby hands.

"Natasha." He called her by her name for the first time; "Remember when I was gone for two days?" She nodded.

"I was so worried." He eyes teared up.

"I have been offered a job…"

"At RED, I know. I saw the application." Heimlich nodded. He didn't know that RED pulled some strings to help him in this case. What he did was a criminal offence, yet he went away a free man. A free, jobless man, desperate enough to do anything what a major corporation like RED wanted him to.

"Should I apply?" he asked her. To his surprise, she turned her head and looked at the cooing doves.

"It's dangerous. You would have to fight." Heimlich stood up, surprised.

"How do you know that?"

"Because… because my brother applied to it earlier. He told me what it was about. I begged him not to go, but he was relentless." She bit her knuckle.

"He always was a… how do you say it… runt of the family. And he wasn't extremely bright. Sure, he has a PhD in literature, but… I'm worried."

Heimlich walked up to her, already seeing her brother as a weak little dummy who needs his hand held constantly. He grabbed her heavy shoulders, looking straight into her eyes.

"You don't have to worry about me, _meine Liebe._"

She smiled at him. "I know. It's my idiot brother that I'm worried about." Heimlich smiled.

"Natasha Drukenski, I solemnly swear to protect your brother vith my own life." He saluted her, making her giggle. She looked at him thankfully, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. The same look won him over all those years ago.

"Don't worry about me, _meine Liebe._ I'm just… I'm just going to miss you."

"Are you taking your doves with you if you go?"

Heimlich nodded. Natasha then ran straight into the supply closet. She took out a small cardboard shoe box. An unmistakable sound was coming from it. Cooing of a small dove. Heimlich looked at the bird. It was the most beautiful dove he had ever seen. Its small beady eyes looked at him, and it flapped its long, pearly wings twice before clumping itself up into a little ball of feathers.

"I found him in the dumpster as I was retrieving the body bag for evidence." She frowned as she remembered the inspector commanding her to go fetch it. "It was plucking an eyeball. It looked so cute." She smiled before giving Heimlich the box. "I want you to have it. To remind you of me."

Heimlich gently stroked the soft feathers. The bird opened its pinkish beak, almost smiling.

"Call him Archimedes." Natasha said looking at Socrates, Euripides and Plato fussing around in the cage. "He'll fit right in."

* * *

"…and that guy is German. Now tell me I don't have a gift!" a young man yelped at an older man holding a sniper rifle.

"Bloody hell, mate, even I could tell that 'e's German." The man seemed irritated.

"Okay den." The wall opened up, and a suited man came in the room again, holding a lit cigarette.

"Yo!" the obnoxious man screamed. "You is French, right? I could smell your cheese cologne from the hall!"

The suited man rolled his eyes and smiled sarcastically.

"..._non,_ I am a belly dancer from Barbados."

The German was sitting near a wall. The entire team was so… stupid. No wonder Redmond Mann wanted him so badly. An unpleasant surprise was his business partner he saw, tucked away under a pile of Scrumpy hard cider.

"You old tit! Good to see ya! Ey, listen, thanks for the gloo. It helped me get the job."

"Really? Well it helped me lose mine…_Dummkopf."_

After that strange conversation, the Scot returned to howling under a pile of bottles, while the German stared at the scrawny kid, thankful for his last name not being Drukenski. He had a promise to keep, and he wasn't going to give up on it now. But, frankly, he didn't want any one of these to be Vodka Drukenski.

"Useless babies." Muttered a larger man who was now standing next to him.

"_Ja."_ Said Heimlich looking for a scrawny Russian. "But, it is who ve are stuck vith. Might as vell get used to it."

Suddenly, something unexpected happened.

"Vodka Drukenski." he presented himself. "I am Heavy." Heimlich's eyes shined.

"Heimlich Dienstag. I am ze Medic." He was incredibly happy that Natasha's brother wasn't all that she described him to be. He was so happy, in fact, that he forgot how to shake hands, so his handshake seemed weak.

"Zo, you are Drukenski." the Medic looked at him. "Tell you what, I haff a feeling I can trust you. Just stay in front of me in battle, and I fill protect you."

_"If the man really is an idiot, I can always use him as a human shield." _He thought to himself.


	7. Tavish DeGroot: The Early Years

**Possibly a disclaimer: **Okay, I know most of the people who reviewed my fic wanted me to do Spy or Sniper next. However, I don't think it would be fair to the poor token black guy. I had to do to this chapter what I've done with Engie's,becuase it turned out to be too long. The dialogue between Tavish and Merasmus is copied word-for-word from the TF2 Halloween comic. I try to use as much canon as I possibly can, so this came in handy.

I do not own TF2 or Valve, though I own many hats. Enjoy, anyway.

* * *

"Are you sure about this? " asked a young blonde boy looking at his friend fidgeting around the loch. He looked nervously at his parents sitting idly by and drinking their morning coffee. Young Damon was incredibly careful when it came to playing with other young Scottish lads. He never got his shoes dirty, there wasn't a single scratch on his skin and no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to get himself in trouble. And there he was, with his new friend Tavish DeGroot, on a secret mission to kill the Loch Ness Monster.

Tavish wiped off his muddy face. He looked at his new creation, quite pleased about what he had just made. Looking back at it, it wasn't so advanced as the things he would put together now. It was a simple stick of TNT, or Tri-Nitro-Toluene, coated with a large flashing ring. The ring was metal, and basically consisted itself of a small button and a lighter. The mix of sulfuric acid, nitric acid and a hint of water were bundled together with some wax. The six year old tried out the TNT formula for weeks, and finally perfected it. And now he was about to put it in action.

The plan was to blow up the Loch Ness Monster using the TNT sticks. When the TNT is thrown, the button would switch on the lighter, causing it to blow up upon impact. Tavish should have known that the plan would backfire, somehow. But, mind you, he was only six. He ran his fingers through his short black hair, looking at his scared friend. He frowned at him

"'Couwse I'm suwe! Ya think Alfred Nobel wasn't suwe when he made this?" Tavish had prepared six bundles of home-made TNT. He looked around the coast once more. The gloomy September morning gave out the smell of victory, because, by any six-year-old's logic, no epic battle was won when it's sunny out. The water of the loch was grayish and reflected the thick clouds, without having that usual shine the water has. It was if the water became completely matte. Tavish kicked off some dirt off his shoes, frowning upon the still watery surface. Damon's parents, and his adoptive parents, were sitting on an old wooden bench somewhere up the hill. His adoptive mother, Stephanie, waved at him.

"Damn yee, woman! Yer givin' us away!" he yelled at her, his screams losing all sense as they went up the hill and got in her ear.

"Love you too, honey!" she waved, smiling at him. Tavish smacked his face with his hand, irritated by that woman.

"Wight…" he looked at Damon, who shook nervously; "Keep yer eyes peeled for anythin' that looks loike Nessie!"

A couple of gulls flew across the sky, squealing. The cold wind tussled their hair and buzzed in their ears, but they stayed, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hand, scoping the area.

"Tavish!" Damon jumped as he saw a shadow float across the surface.

"Holy cwap!" Tavish left out yet another "r", a speech impediment he had ever since he could talk. He waddled quickly to the surface, holding the six sticks. Knowing that he had a good throwing arm, he lifted it up and bent slightly in the knees.

"Fwedom!" he shouted, as Damon backed away and cupped his ears nervously. The stick of TNT flew across the air, only to land on the surface intact. Tavish was confused.

"Maybe you didn't build it properly." squealed Damon, biting his fingernail innocently.

"_Maybe you didn't build it blah-blah-blah…_ Shut up, Damon!" Tavish snapped as he concentrated on throwing another stick on the beast. This one too, landed on the water, and continued to float about, gently touching the first stick.

"This time…" Tavish stretched out his leg like one of those professional baseball players, and swung the thing harder than before. It went further, but it did no damage. The Loch Ness Monster, which was later confirmed to be some driftwood, turned and started to float away, carried by the cold wind.

"It's getting away!" Damon yelped excitedly. Tavish threw two more sticks on the water, where they continued to float about. Maybe the water wasn't enough for the impact. Maybe it doesn't work when it gets wet. Tavish looked at his last potential masterpiece, laying in his hand. He frowned at it, as the Loch Ness Driftwood floated away out of sight.

"Piece o' junk." Tavish exclaimed, throwing the stick behind his back with angry force.

* * *

Damon's parents were sitting comfortably with Stephanie and Travis, Tavish's adoptive parents. It was a chilly day, and they drank warm coffee to keep themselves cozy. Stephanie looked at the two boys playing on the coast. She waved to Tavish, who seemed to be thinking deeply. She waved to him, and he waved back, shouting to her.

"Love you too, honey!" she responded, not exactly knowing what he just said.

"So, how's the boy?" Damon's mother smiled while rubbing her hands together. Stephanie fixed her long winter coat.

"He's doin' fine, thank you. He's taken quite a shine to that boy of yers." Damon and Tavish were talking near the coast excitedly. Tavish turned to the water and screamed something. Stephanie chuckled.

"Wasn't it a bit odd, him being black as the ace of spades?" the woman asked, in a way that she considered was subtle. Stephanie smiled. She was almost completely white herself, with her long blonde hair and small freckles. When she was first born, the doctors thought she was an albino. Her husband, Stephen, was the same as her; only his hair was chestnut brown. The couple couldn't go anywhere without being given odd looks from by-passers. Stephanie still remembered the day that she and Stephen first found Tavish. He was abandoned, left in a small crib made out of metal and various wires. They immediately took him to their home, where they had raised him as their own.

"It's not odd. Our home is just more…colorful." She smiled as she made the unintended pun.

"What we're more concerned about is his interest in explosives." Said Stephen, hugging his wife. "The boy can't git enough a them."

"I see… Is it possible that your son has some psychological disorder that makes him act the way he does?" the woman smirked, as her husband rolled her eyes, hoping that something would put him out of his misery. Stephanie frowned.

"That _psychological disorder_ is called childhood curiosity, Zelda. And if you let your son pull the stick from his arse, you would see that it's quite common."

Zelda gasped. Suddenly, Stephen noticed something. Their children were throwing something in the loch.

"Now isn't that nice?" said Stephanie. She couldn't help but notice that the objects they were throwing in were left floating about.

"How come Tavish is throwing those big red sticks in?"

"It's called _being an unruly child_." Zelda smirked, looking at the moist ground. "And if you disciplined Tavish once in a while, you would see that it shouldn't be **that** common."

As much as Stephanie wanted to smack Zelda in the face with her foot, she got up, ready to go get Tavish.

"Playing is one thing. This is littering." She began to walk down the slippery hill, and soon her husband and Zelda followed. Zelda struggled to walk in her tight high heels, much to Stephanie's amusement.

Suddenly, they saw an object approaching them. It was a stick. A large red stick with a fuse and a lighter attached to it. It flew through the air in slow motion, and Zelda could see the glistening surface of the big red button, just as it hit her large forehead.

* * *

First, there was a large explosion. A gush of wind tussled the boys' hair. When they turned around in shock, they saw terror. A large fiery spiral went up in the air, crackling loudly. It soon disappeared, and a giant cloud of dirty, grey smoke filled up the sky. The entire pasture went deafeningly loud, the hot smoke escaping to each corner of the plane. The hills behind them disappeared. There was not a single scream in that utter chaos. But, as Tavish anticipated, there were a lot of flying body parts. The first thing Damon saw was his mother's ring that fell in front of him. He picked up the shining diamond, and the finger it was propped up on. He saw the whiteness of his mother's bone. The poor boy started to cry. His parents were gone. His life was over. Meanwhile, Tavish didn't say a thing. He watched Stephen's head catapulting through the air. He destroyed his family. He destroyed his perfectly normal life. All in a single, careless throw. And it was all his fault.

"Awesome." he said, hypnotized by the puff of smoke pinching his eyes. He may have not gotten Nessie yet, but he was on the right track.

"How cool is that!?" he asked his crying friend… ahem, crying former friend.

* * *

It had been exactly one year since Tavish DeGroot killed his original adoptive parents, and his best friend's family. No legal action was taken against the boy. However, the whole incident was retold time and time again by all the inhabitants of Ullapool, so, in the end, a simple accident managed to become a ferocious massacre. Up to that day, mothers shielded their children from the terrifying tot, walking around the Highlands looking like a black misfortune bringing sheep.

"Don't look at him, Adelaide!" the mother instructed her young daughter, turning her around while she shut her eyes tightly. "That boy is an ungodly menace."

Young Tavish walked past the shy girl, carrying his bag innocently. The contents of the bag was quite usual for any Crypt Grammar School attendant. There he held a couple of books, a quill, a cheat sheet with the School's hymn written on it in case he forgot and just a dash of potassium chlorite in a small bottle. He held the bag close to his body, trying not to interfere with the unstable compound. He could see the young girl's shy smile flash across her face.

He has been a member of the Crypt Grammar School for Orphans for about a full year, and during that year, he was adopted twice. His first family lasted about two months, before they gave up on curing his obsession on all things explosive. The second family came after a month. Tavish happily sat in the car with them, his new mother smiling beside him. Everything was going great, until the car ran into a cyclist. His new father panicked and turned to the left, and the car screeched as it hit a tree.

"Awesome." Exclaimed the wide-eyed Tavish after escaping the burning wreckage. His leg was broken and he almost died from inhaling so many exhaust fumes, but as he looked at the great ball of fire, reaching the tree top and spreading into the sky, he knew that it was his destiny to recreate that moment.

Sadly, his new parents' destiny **wasn't** to see him do it.

So, it was back to the Crypt School. But once there, he started intensely working on his new invention. He spent long, sleepless hours locked in his old dusty dorm, trying to perfect his newest invention. A grenade. So simple to make, yet nearly impossible to master. And every weekend, around eight o'clock, he brought his test subjects and threw them at the Loch, from the same spot he threw his self-activating TNTs.

"Too slow… too heavy… needs more Ammonium Nitrate…" commented the disappointed Tavish on each explosion bursting through the quiet starry night. The local inhabitants were less than thrilled about this regular hour long show, and continued to avoid Tavish as much as they possibly could. Until September 17th.

That Saturday was the day he finally wanted to test out his newest creation. Usually he made a couple of grenades, but this week, he made only one. He pulled it out from under his bed, hidden from the prying eyes of Sister Florence. He quickly ran to another dorm, knocking loudly on it.

"Be near the lock at eight! I 'ave a hunch! It'll work this time, it will!"

All the boys at the Crypt Grammar school knew better than to have anything to do with Tavish. Damon, sitting alone in his dorm began to cry again. He remembered the cold morning, the explosion that destroyed his life. He still kept his mother's ring close to him, in his pocket. Of all days, Tavish picked today to test out his amazing, mind blowing contraption. It seemed like a bad joke. When Tavish ran to his dorm and kicked the door open, he looked at his former friend, his feet kicking the air while he was sitting on his bed.

"Damon! You wanna go to the Loch with me?" he held the grenade carefully in his hand. Damon couldn't believe him. Asking him to relive the psychological breakdown he suffered one year ago. He had no idea what to say to him, but he was boiling inside.

"Okay." Damon shrugged, never being too keen on holding a grudge for too long. He kept silent while Tavish ran to spread the news, tactically avoiding the nuns passing by. Damon then looked down at his untied shoes. His mother always did the knot. He sighed quietly.

* * *

Tavish expected a lot of things when he came down to the loch that night. He half expected his classmates to ridicule him, to spit in his face and call him a monster. The other half expected that nobody would show up. He had experienced that before, and he always returned to his dorm in shame, burying his face in the pillow and waiting until morning, not making a sound. What he didn't expect was a large horde of his schoolmates waiting patiently near the loch. As soon as Tavish came, the group started pushing each other and telling Tavish to come closer.

"Well, come on, then! Don't keep us waitin'!" yelled a boy from afar.

Tavish gulped. In his hand he held a makeshift grenade launcher, made out of cardboard and some metal scraps. A mechanism inside pushed the grenade outward when the trigger was flicked, making the impact more precise. In theory.

"Come on, come on!" yelled the Crypt School boys. They were wearing their school uniform, their ties untied and hanging idly over their shoulders. Some boys grabbed them and swung around the air with them. The young black Scot walked up to the coast. His fellow schoolmates stayed behind. Tavish concentrated on a small piece of wood floating far away. The grey sky looked bleak, and the water was rapid, moving around in small waves due to heavy wind. It was about to rain.

Tavish picked up the grenade launcher, and tucked the grenade in it. It was a snug fit. He lifted the thing over his shoulder, and as he did, the rowdy boys went silent. All that was heard was the whooshing wind, and Tavish's nervous heartbeat. He gulped once more and pulled the trigger. It sent the grenade out, the red oval object flying through the sky. It almost fell on the water. Tavish found himself praying; not another failure, not now, not today! The grenade plopped silently in the water, and it began to sink down to the bottom. Tavish was just about ready for ridicule, when suddenly; triumph!

In a matter of seconds, the grenade blew itself up in a thousand little pieces, all flying upwards, some scattered sideways due to water pressure. It was an extremely loud explosion, it sounded like thunder crashing through the Highlands. The water went out, looking like a mushroom cloud. When it reached its peak, it stayed up for a long time, like a common puff of smoke. This explosion had volume; it has a special thickness like no other. Two lightning bolts flashed behind it, and the entire watery blast now resembled a tornado. A couple of frightened boys ran away to the safety of their homes, and the townspeople were screaming with terror. Tavish and the boys who stayed looked at it in astonishment. Slowly, the water came down, drop by drop. It fell to the surface slowly, and when it did, a loud thunder was heard in the distance. Tavish was nervous. The best performance of his life, and everyone was silent. He closed his eyes and was prepared to be insulted mercilessly.

To his amazement, the boys started ecstatically screaming, Damon included. In fact, Damon picked him up on his shoulders along with two other classmates. The boys chanted his name and looked up at him like he was a God. The celebration didn't last long, as the boys had to run back to their houses, called by their hysterical mothers peeking through the windows of the old cottages. Tavish was pleased with himself. He took his launcher in his other hand and looked into the distance.

"That was very pretty."

Tavish turned around, almost insulted by that remark. There stood a girl; the same girl he saw earlier. The girl smiling at him behind her protective mother. She was about his age; her long blonde hair was scooped up in a pony tail and decorated with a big black velvet bow. Her skin was like porcelain, and Tavish thought that she was a ghost, at first. Her long white dress swayed in the wind. She looked into the distance, possibly looking forward to another explosion. Tavish protested.

"Pretty? There's nothing pretty about it, lass!" he stomped; "It's an explosion, explosions aren't pretty." He walked up to her. She barely looked at him with her deep blue eyes. Her eyes were extremely light blue, almost white. She pouted her lips slightly. Those red lips of hers absorbed all the color she was supposed to have in her face and body, apparently. And it was the only way Tavish could know for sure that she wasn't a ghost.

"Whatever it was, it was amazing!"

The girl then ran to her house. Tavish was left slightly baffled. He returned to his school, awaiting the scolding of his many teachers. He was taken by the admiration of his schoolmates. Even Damon wasn't so cross with him anymore. He barely even cursed at him, walking past him on the way to his dorm.

Tavish DeGroot; the boy that walked out an outcast, and returned a legend.

* * *

Over the next couple of weeks, Tavish became somewhat of a local legend. His name appeared in many papers, and, suddenly, kids stopped avoiding him, and started asking for his autograph. Sister Florence was not pleased with him using arms as a mean to entertain his friends, and neither was dean McEwan. This could've led to Tavish being expelled, if it weren't for the press, who made Tavish and The Crypt Grammas School constantly in the public eye. This gave them a reputation of creating legends, which are smart enough to construct a grenade at the age of seven. Thanks to the newly found interest in the miraculous school, many talented young men started enlisting. Dean McEwan decided to keep Tavish enlisted, just for the sake of being a poster child for The Crypt Grammar School. He needed to promise that he would never manufacture or display his artillery in such a manner again. And he didn't… publicly, at least.

Tavish became somewhat of a marvel, and word of his greatness spread far beyond the borders of Ullapool.

It was a chilly October night, and Tavish was with the girl he met on that marvelous September evening. She stood on the hill, her long hair flowing in the mid-autumn wind. Tavish liked being around her. He talked to her about his newest creations and plans for them, and she just stood there, quietly.

"I never asked ye…." He stopped bouncing around her excitedly; "what is yer name, lass?"

She smiled, not looking at him, but looking at the gray surface of the loch.

"Adelaide." She said softly.

"That's a dumb name, it is."

"Well, so is Tavish, then." Tavish frowned at her. Adelaide stared into her black lacquered shoes.

"I like you." She said silently.

And, with that, she hopped back home. Tavish really fancied her. To him, she was one of his most loyal fans. He always felt a strange surge of sadness, watching her leave. He looked down at the mushy greenish mud and began walking on it, back to the Crypt.

A few townspeople greeted him along the way. It was as if they had forgotten about him killing his adoptive parents. People are easy to change, he thought to himself. They just need a distraction from what you did and what you are. His footsteps echoed on the long stone road. When he finally got back to the Crypt, Sister Florence smiled at him. She was looking at a couple standing before her. She opened her mouth widely and could barely speak. Tavish ran up to her, trying to take a look at the couple.

"Wot's goin' on, Sister Florence?" he asked loudly. The old bony nun shuddered and almost smacked the boy, stopping herself at the last minute.

"Tavish…" she looked at the couple; "these… these are your birth parents."

* * *

Tavish stared at the two figures in bemusement. He couldn't speak at all, and just stood still, his mouth wide open. The two figures were a spitting image of him, both tall and black. Both the mother and the father had dark black hair. The mother wore a pink shirt and a wide checkered skirt, while the father wore a kilt. They were both dressed quite traditionally. These two figures, standing in front of him, had one characteristic that made them different from any other person he ever saw. They were both blind. They wore matching dark sunglasses and carried a white cane.

"Wot the…?" Tavish stuttered.

The woman leaned closer to him, trying to hear where the voice was coming from.

"Is that 'im?" she asked in her Scottish accent, her voice was croaked and loud. Sister Florence cautiously stepped back as the woman got on her knees. She began touching Tavish's face gently, feeling up his chin first, then working her way up to the nose. Tavish really resembled the man, but had his mother's nose.

"He does look a lot like 'is father." She squealed slightly as she talked. Tavish felt the warmth of his mother's hands on his cheeks. Somehow, he didn't find it impossible for this woman to be his mother. He just felt a strange connection.

"'e does, does 'e?" asked the man. His voice was throbbing and extremely powerful. Tavish didn't quite know what was going on.

"Are ye really me birth parents?" he asked the woman, only to get a swift slap from Sister Florence.

"Don't talk to yer mother like that, boy!" Florence was then smacked in the head a couple of times by the woman's long white cane.

"Who gave you the roite to smack me son?" for a blind woman, her aim was very precise, and Tavish couldn't help but to laugh. The woman smiled as well.

"There's that laugh." Her voice went soft, and what seemed like a tear rolled down her face. "There's the laugh of me little boy."

"Wot's goin' on?" Tavish felt disoriented.

"I feel I'm supposed to give ye an explanation." said the tall man, as he kneeled before Tavish with a loud groan.

"You see," he started; "yer mother and me… we, uh…"

"You were born in a glorious family of the DeGroots." continued the mother. "The DeGroots are the best Demomen dis side a the Earth." Tavish felt confused. Demomen?

"Us Demomen are masters of de art of making bombs and explosives." continued the man.

"And we have a very long tradition of abandoning all Demomen at birth."

"Wot!?" Tavish shrieked, only to be smacked by Florence.

"You again!" the mother smacked her square in the eye, leaving her to clutch it, softly weeping. Tavish was confused. What kind of parent would do that?

"Anyway…" the mother continued; "…me and yer father were both abandoned. We have been abandoned at birth, and we were retrieved by our parents when our skills manifested."

"Eye was brought back when I was ten, yer mother at thirteen." The woman shook her head.

"It wasn't that I was bad at it! My folks never seemed to mind what I was doin'. I could've blown up the Queen of England, and they wouldn't know."

Tavish was starting to get the picture. That explains the cot he was abandoned in. His first grenade was made from it. What his parents gave him was actually a starter kit.

"Son…" the mother put her hands on the boy's shoulders; "we never wanted ta leave you. It's just tradition, you'll understand. It's just pointless outdated tradition." Her lip started to quiver. "The point is that… we love you, son."

The boy looked back at the man, who was stroking his thick moustache.

"Whaddya say, boy? Come home with the old folks."

Tavish looked at the both figures. He wanted to say something, anything. But the warmth he felt around them was indescribable. He closed his eyes and fell in his mother's arms. The woman grasped him on her chest. The same woman who had left him alone. This was the same woman who wanted her son to grow up around explosives and various arms. He should have felt betrayed, and yet…

He was home. At that moment he knew that he was home.

On that day, his terrible childhood ended, but his training had just begun.

* * *

As a child, Tavish was pressured by his parents to get a job. A seven year old without a job in their family was preposterous. He did menial labor around the neighbors' houses, but in the end, the money he came home with wasn't enough to buy a loaf of bread. His loving parents were very disappointed at him. The first month was like the ultimate test of Demomen. It had to be passed with flying colors. Tavish's bombs were impeccable, but he still didn't have a job, and had one eye too many for his parent's taste. His father called him too cautious, cautious being the ultimate insult a Demoman like himself could think of. Though his parents were demanding, Tavish still loved them. He knew that when he got home, he would go to his home, where he would be greeted by his loving mother, who would then give him his favorite dinner. Their house wasn't much, but to him, it was a home, and that's all that mattered. For once in his life, young Tavish lived in a house that was radiant and his life was filled with love. To top it all off, every day, he would meet with his friends. One friend in particular.

They were sitting on a small hill, the moonlight shining upon them. She wore a black bow in her hair again.

"My parents want me to get a job. Me mum can't stop naggin' 'bout it."

"You should get a job." Adelaide clutched a small platinum crucifix hanging from her neck. "I had a job for two years now. People might start to think that you're… lazy." She said without blinking.

Tavish didn't say anything, but agreed with her. A lazy Scot was the last thing anyone needs, and the last thing his dear mother wanted him to become. It was October 30th, the night before Halloween. The wolves were howling in the distance when he decided that he was going to get a job. And he will get it tomorrow!

It was Halloween, the night the dead would rise, and, according to his mom, possibly jobs for a young lad of seven.

"Come morning those hellish apparitions will be gone. Along with all their jobs. Get ye to the moors, boy!"

He was walking near a haunted castle that seemed to rise far up into the sky. It was completely black, and the tombstones distributed along the path were illuminated. "Help wanted" was engraved on them.

He never did find a ghost that cold October night, but he did find a job. Oh, he did find a job.

"Who dares disturb Merasmus the Magician?" screeched the figure appearing before the old white door. It was a terrifying creature, a skull of a poor animal placed upon his head. His black robe whooshed around him, making him look like a ghost. Poor Tavish was shaking, his vision went dark. The old magician banged upon the floorboard with his large ceremonial stick. The floor shook.

"This is an Eldritch Castle of Dark Magicke! Not a pancake house!"

Tavish gulped before opening his mouth to speak.

"I'm not here for treats, sir. I-I've come about the job."

The creature looked at him, scratching his long chin. He seemed to have no pupils as his gaze pierced through the frail boy.

"A job, hmmm?"

Without another word, he escorted the boy into the house. The first room they walked into was a grimy old library, filled with books and old bottles filled with various potions. A few gargoyles were placed upon the wall, candles coming out of their heads. Maybe it was the dark, maybe it was the smell of myrrh coming off the old man's pale skin, but at one point, Tavish saw a gargoyle move. He felt uneasy, but he was here to do a job, and he will do it one way or the other. He listened to the Magician speak.

"Welcome to the grand library! 'Tis filled with the many corpse dust of the many poor souls who tried to clean it… and failed! Sweep this place and I shall give ye a nickel. But before ye begin, hear me well, child. This library holds a certain book. A book of forbidden knowledge and ancient wickedness…"

Merasmus turned, his long robe whooshing behind him as he disappeared behind a bookshelf, his voice lingering in the dusty air.

"I warn ye…"

"GAZE NOT UPON THIS EVIL TOME!" the magician reappeared, a bright light glowing behind him. Thunder struck outside, letting out a ferocious sound.

"Don't look at the books. Got it." Tavish squinted his eyes not to be blinded by the brightness. Merasmus seemed taken.

"Uh…yes. Good." He coughed. "But…you probably want to, right? Because no matter how tempted ye be…"

"Really, it's fine. I'll just dust." Tavish pointed at one lone broom in the corner.

"That the broom I should use?"

"GAZE NOT UPON THE BROOM!" Merasmus screamed.

"And, yes, that broom."

So he set to work. The witching hour approached as he swept through it. And he kept sweeping until the foul place was cleansed. Suddenly, he heard a terrible cry. A cry coming from right in front of him.

"Read meeee..."

Tavish looked at the crying object. It was a book. The book had eyes on the cover. It spoke through the pages, muffled by the piece of rope it was tied with. Tavish took a closer look. The book appeared to have a mouth, a giant cave filled with sharp fangs.

"Read meee…"

Tavish was intrigued. "You're a book about…bombs?"

The Bombinomicon cried some more.

"But the magician said not to."

The book then started to mock him.

"Oh, the magician said not to. Oh, I'm sorry, that changes everything. I didn't realize some old idiot in a dress told you not to read something." The book howled in its deep hellish voice. Tavish felt slightly insulted.

"Gosh, you better not, then. Here, why don't I just read myself?"

Suddenly, the book opened itself up and started flipping, stopping at certain pages.

"Oh my. That explodes like** that,** does it? My contents are fascinating and not dangerous at all!" Tavish was burning with the need to grab that damn book and read it cover to cover.

"This information changes everything I thought I knew about bombs and…"

Tavish couldn't take it anymore. He leaned over to the book.

"Well, maybe a little peek…"

Suddenly, a hot rush of energy flew into his eye. Tavish screamed in pain as his vision turned into a blue chaos. The Bombinomicon laughed at him.

"I haunted your eye! I totally did it! This is the greatest moment of my life!"

"What have you done!?" screamed Merasmus as he ran to the frightened Tavish. He was clutching his burning eye.

"Now he'll never shut up about it! I have to live with this book, you know?" Merasmus adjusted his fingers into a claw, blue energy started to come out of his fingers.

"We only have one chance! Brace yourself, boy!"

Tavish grabbed the man's long robe. As the man chanted a spell, the library went into a whirlpool. It spun Tavish around, kicking and screaming. It was like his soul was coming out of his eyeball. He suddenly thumped on the ground. He was laying on the clear moist grass. The magician was gone. The book was gone. The castle was gone. And his eye was gone. He was left with a gaping hole in his skull. He wanted to cry, but didn't want to find out what would happen to his empty eye socket if he did. And, worst of all, he never got his promised nickel.

"Hi, Tavish!"

Tavish recognized that voice. It was of an old friend. She stood close to him, clutching her crucifix tightly. He couldn't let her see him like that. He was missing an eye, and was probably cursed forever. He turned around and greeted her, cursing Merasmus for sending him to this hill. Adelaide placed her skinny arm on his back.

"What's the matter, Tavish?" she sounded concerned. He could've talked about Merasmus. He could've talked about the book. But she would think he was crazy and leave. He didn't want her to leave.

"I'm a monster." He tried not to sigh. Adelaide turned him to her with brute force. He never knew that she was so strong. He reluctantly opened his eye. She squinted at his empty eye socket; the inside of it was completely red. And that was it. Absolutely nothing else was there. Tavish shook as he remembered what had just happened.

"I look like a freak." He smiled. "Happy Halloween." He sat on the ground and looked up at the stars. Thy sky was a magnificent blue, and the stars on it danced. His eye might have been playing tricks on him, but to him, the stars were dancing that night. Suddenly, he felt a soft fabric on his face. It soon covered his good eye.

"Hey!" He protested, trying to get it off.

"Hold still!" she commanded. Finally she tied the black velvet around the side of his head. It covered his gaping eye socket. Tavish recognized the strap she used. It was from her bow.

"Now you look like a pirate!" she smiled as she sat next to him. Tavish looked into her blue eyes, shining brighter than any star he had ever seen. He frowned at her.

"Well, you look like a ghost!"

Adelaide came closer to him, moving her platinum hair off her face. She suddenly pressed her lips against his. She kept them there for merely a second, leaving Tavish to wipe off his lips, unable to speak. She hugged him tightly and squeaked with joy.

"Now we're a pirate ghost!"

Tavish sat there, having this strange, girly creature grasp him. He was shocked. Shocked, but not necessarily sickened. And, somehow, he found himself staying there, in her embrace, a bit longer than he probably intended.


	8. Tavish DeGroot: The Saga Continues

Thirty year old Tavish prepared for this moment for a long time. Nothing, absolutely nothing is going to stop him now. Finally, he was going to destroy the Loch Ness Monster. He camped in the tall watch tower near the coast. He had his new and improved grenade launcher at the ready. He surveyed the area, satisfied that there were no civilians. He adjusted his eye patch. It was strange how even after over twenty years of wearing it; he still couldn't make it comfortable for him. He scoped the loch one last time, if the Monster emerges, it would be here. And he had a perfect shot.

Suddenly, an older man rushed in the tower, making Tavish hide the grenade launcher nervously. The man nodded at him, pushing up his glasses with his index finger. The man walked up the small opening of the watch tower, staring outside intensely. The men were quiet, like they were waiting for the other one to get out. The waiting felt incredibly long, and Tavish figured that, if the man wouldn't be leaving any time soon, there was no reason not to have a small chat with him.

"So…" started Tavish, never being a fan of any sort of prolonged silence. "Lovely weather we're having here."

"_Ja_." Said the man simply. Another longer period of silence ensued.

"So wot brings ye to ol' Ullapool, eh?" asked the Scot, taking a swig of his Scrumpy, hard cider. He started drinking it when his father died, three months ago. He managed to blow himself up while trying to blow up the Queen of Spain. Tavish's mother constantly reminisced about him, sadly bowing her head down.

_"Yer father was a hell of a man. I miss him Tavish. I miss him every day."_ She would say. Tavish didn't want to talk about him, avoiding the awful truth was easier. He would never see his father again, and he tried to be fine with it.

But no one could ever be fine with that.

After another swig of Scrumpy, his eye was focused on the German, who sighed deeply.

"I haff come here on an important mission of finding the Loch Ness Monster."

Tavish spat out the Scrumpy, the small drops ricocheted off the wooden wall.

"Ey! Oi'm lookin' fer 'im, too!"

The German smiled at him.

"Zo, you are also a man of science, _ja_?"

"Ye could say that." The two men looked at each other, not paying any attention to the loch.

"So wot will ye do when ye find him, doc?" asked Tavish curiously.

"Vell…" the doctor looked at the distance. "First, I'm going to observe it. Make notes on it. Give proof to the community that it's real."

"Go on…" Tavish wasn't sure about having to lay off his hunt for one measly observer, but this man seemed good enough.

"And then… vell… I suppose I'll stun him and dissect him." He ended with a smile.

"Wot?!" Tavish screamed, and quickly toned his voice down to a whisper. "What de ya mean, "stun and dissect 'im"?"

The doctor reached into his backpack. As he bent down, the wooden floorboards squeaked. He pulled out something resembling a gun. It was an oddly-shaped air-powered gun. Mounted on top of the weapon was a transparent cylindrical case filled with syringes, from which the projectiles it fires apparently derived.

"_Das hier_,..." started the German; "…ist _ein _syringe gun. It shoots a strong tranquilizer. One syringe wouldn't be enough for handling a monster of these proportions, zo I haff to shoo out my entire arsenal, _ja_?" the man chuckled, Tavish looked at him annoyed.

"Whoa, there is no way in hell I'm letting ya dissect ol' Nessie!"

The German groaned.

"Oh, _Gott, _you are not one of zhose nature activists, are you?" he rolled his eyes.

Tavish victoriously pulled out his grenade launcher. He presented it to the German, who looked at it in amazement.

"Nature activists? HAH! Ye wish!" the doctor blinked at him.

"_Und_ what are you going to do vith that, exactly?" he raised one of his eyebrows. Tavish shrugged.

"Blow it up tae bits." He said calmly, like it was implied. The man looked at him in horror and raised his voice.

"Are you insane?! Zhis is a mythical creature, _und_ all signs show that it vill appear today! Ve must study it! Not blow it up!"

Tavish was less than impressed with this remark.

"Well, wot do ye care? Ye were gonna cut it up!"

"_Ja. _For SCIENCE." He said slowly, trying to intimidate the Scot. There they were: two nutjobs, one mythical being. One wanted to kill it, the other one also wanted to kill it, but slower and more painfully for the creature. The unimpressed Scot shouted at the German, not caring about the echo in the old wooden watch tower.

"The magic runes of the Highlanders state that the monster will appear on this day. And oi won't be daft enouff to let some Nazi have all the fun."

"How about this:" the German suggested a compromise; "I kill it and cut it up. THEN you blow it up."

"How about this:" the Scot rebutted; "I blow it up, then you don't have to cut it up."

The older German looked briefly into the smooth surface of the loch.

"How about this: you prance away vith that little skirt of yours, and leave me to my business." The German replied shortly and smugly. And that was all the Scot could handle. With a single punch, he knocked the German to the ground. The man lay on the cold floor, motionless. Pleased with the result, Tavish continued to look out the small window, until he felt two strong hands clutching his throat. He was choking, and could barely manage to grab an empty bottle of Scrumpy. He swiftly hit the German over the head with it, causing it to break. Oddly, this had no effect on the German, and he continued to squeeze his throat. Using the now broken bottle, Tavish stabbed the man in his thigh. He shrieked in pain, barely releasing the Scot for a moment. But that moment was all he needed to grab his grenade launcher and point it at him. The German stared at the weapon, holding his bleeding wound and breathing fast.

"You… you don't have ze balls." He panted.

"Wanna bet?" the Scot loaded the launcher with one more grenade he took out from his bag. And at that very moment, the German jumped on his and grabbed the weapon.

"I vill not let you kill that creature before I do!"

They were both pulling at the weapon, grunting as they fought over it. All of a sudden, a loud bang was heard. Somebody fired the launcher. It flew through the open window, and into the sea. Tavish growled at the German for blowing their cover, though he didn't exactly know which one of them pulled the trigger. The outcome was different today. The water didn't rise up. It started bubbling. A million bubbles appeared on the surface, and the water now seemed snowy white. This wasn't supposed to happen. Both Tavish and the German were confused. And just then, it happened.

A large demon like head rose up from the bubbling surface. The creature's eyes were red as blood, and its mouth was the size of a cave. It growled, and all the houses near the loch started to shake. Only the creature's head was the size of three watch towers. Throwing another grenade at it would be pointless. The men looked at the gray creature, its scales flapping as it roared.

"It…is…beautiful!" Tavish said with a tear in his eye. This creature looked like a snake, but had a large green fin on the top of its head, like a lizard. The fin was see through and looked glassy, it waved in the wind. The tides grew bigger when the creature dived back in the ocean. First came in the head, then the long body, then the long blue tail. It splashed the coast as it came back in the water. No. It didn't splash. It caused a tsunami. A great blue tower, rippling and swaying on the coast blocked the sun. The German and Tavish were shrouded in darkness. They screamed as the tower was crushed under the loud wave. The wooden boards were breaking, and came up to the surface of the water. Tavish held his breath, but taken by the surprise, couldn't stay awake. He grabbed his rocket launcher, and then, everything went black. Then he saw a familiar figure. It was a girl. She wore a long white dress and tiny black shoes. She smiled shyly at Tavish, her teeny nose wrinkling upwards.

"G-g-ghost?" he asked her.

"Hi, Tavish!" she said as he came closer to her. Suddenly, he felt like something was pulling him away. He reached to the girl again, but nevertheless, she stayed out of reach.

"Bye, Tavish!" she moved her fingers as she waved at him.

When Tavish woke up, the wave was gone. He clutched the rocket launcher in his hands, spitting out some salty water. The German was pulling on his collar. They were both soaking wet.

"I need a drink." Tavish said as he saw the wooden wreckage around them.

"Likewise." said the German, wringing out some water from his coat. "You know any good pubs around here?"

* * *

When the two men came into Carlyle's Pub, grunting and soaking wet, nobody asked about their condition. They all knew about the sighting of the great Loch Ness Monster. And all the people who witnessed it were now in the pub, quietly drinking their beers to get the terrifying image out of their heads. Maybe the soberness played tricks on their minds?

The two men sat down at the counter, soaking the tall bar stools. Tavish ordered two pints of ale. The two men drank their beers quietly, water dripping down their faces. They were mad at each other for letting the monster get away, but they were also mad at themselves: no man worth his salt would ruin such an amazing chance just because another simpleton had a similar idea. They sat it the crowded bar, sipping their beer slowly.

"Thanks fer savin' me life." muttered Tavish drunkenly.

"Thank you for ze beer." said the German. They continued to sit in silence, until Tavish finally snapped.

"God damn it!" he shouted and threw the empty glass on the floor. It shattered instantly, hauling the interest of the other people in the pub. They were all staring at the Scot, who was steaming at the German.

"If you weren't there in the watch tower none a this woulda happened!" he tightened his fists, about to punch the German again. The German remained seated, ignoring the pain he was feeling on his thigh.

"Vell, if you weren't caught up in blowing up the monster…" he started.

"I'm the crazy one, then? Wot about you? You were goin ta cut it up!"

"Alright, lads, settle down." said the barkeep, wiping off some spilled ale of the smooth counter. Tavish never listened to barkeeps before in his life, and he sure as hell won't start now.

"Are you going to call my plan stupid? My plan would result in me giving something to the scientific community." The German clumsily stood up, putting up his fists. He hiccupped.

"The scientific community, ye say?" Tavish kicked the bar stool away. The "audience" gasped. "Well, my plan would result in me givin' summin' to yer… to yer wife's community!"

"Vhat exactly are you implying?" asked the German crossly, picking up an empty glass bottle and lifting it up in the air.

"I'm sayin' I've been shaggin ya wife!"

The German opened his eyes, and spat out the most ridiculous thing he could.

"Vell someone has to!"

The drunken Scot, the barkeep, and all the guests looked at the German, puzzled. The German noticed that the crowd was extremely confused.

"My wife is a troll." he shrugged. "A disgusting, boring troll."

Tavish's mouth began to twitch. He let out a cough, which turned into a quick burst of laughter. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop laughing at the man who just called his wife a troll. And the German's apathetic facial expression made it even funnier. Soon, the entire pub burst into tears, the German included. The Scot put his arm around him, still laughing uncontrollably.

"Eye…eye freakin' love you man." He slurred after his muscles stopped twitching.

"Barkeep!" the German yelled to the man; "A round of beers on me!" The crowd cheered with joy.

"_Und_ make those German beers. Those ales of yours taste like urine."

The cheering stopped for a moment. And then continued once everyone got their cold pints of lager.

* * *

After over two hours of bonding over beer, Scottish, German and all in between, the two men were completely drunk. They sang a mix of _Lilli Marleen_ and _Auld Lang Syne_. They barely kept their eyes open, and leaned onto each other not to fall of the freakishly tall bar stools.

"Eye…eye freaking love ya, man…" stuttered Tavish as they finally finished the duet that sent twelve guests running out of the pub, clutching their ears. The German laughed.

"You are not zuch a sthupid Scottish_ Dummkopf_ after all." The man burped.

"In fact, you are one of the most favorite people in my life."

Tavish took a long swig of beer before falling to the counter. "That's sweet, ya Nazi."

"No, really! You are up…" the German lifted his hand up over his head, only to skeptically lower it down to his hip.

"You are up here. Which iz good, because I don't like people that much. The rest are down…" he tried to lower his hand closer to the ground. The stool wobbled under him, and he fell on his face with a thump. Tavish laughed madly while Heimlich, as the German presented himself after the second beer, picked himself up and sat of the cold floor.

"…ze rest are way down here." he ended.

"Is there someone higher than me?" teased Tavish.

"A lot of things…" Heimlich got up with a groan, and propped his elbows on the counter.

"But mostly birds… some dead people… like Archimedes _und so_…" he pulled out his wallet and rummaged through it until he found a picture. "_Und _her."

The picture was of his nurse. She smiled shyly at the camera, her big brown eyes shining even though the picture was taken in a dark room. She put her head on her pudgy arm, leaning on her desk. Heimlich said that she was his mistress. Tavish frowned. If this was attractive to him, he wondered what his hag of a wife looked like.

"She _ist _ze best human being a man could ask for." He rubbed the tip of his fingers against the smooth picture. "_Meine Liebe…" _And then, Heimlich looked at Tavish straight in the eye.

"_Und_ who ist your favorite human being?"

"Me mum." Tavish said shortly, searching his mind for another face.

"And Ghost."

"Ghost?" asked Heimlich after finishing another bottle of beer. "You like a ghost?"

"She ain't a ghost, ya twit." He spat out at the German. Heimlich sighed with relief.

"Good. For a moment there, I thought you were a necrophiliac or something."

Tavish laughed, though he didn't mean to. Whoever this German was, he was deeply disturbed. And yet, the conversation between the two flew smoothly, like butter on hot toast.

"She's loike…" he burped inside his mouth; "she was loike my biggest fan. I earned a reputation, ya know… Scotland's master of weaponry. At age seven, could ya believe? Anyway, she's…special tae me and stuff, ya know? And she always wears white…like a ghost…or that nurse a yers…or a…"

"Or a bride." Finished Heimlich, looking in the distance. Tavish imagined Ghost. She turned into a beautiful woman over the past twenty years. She was now a curvaceous woman with broad hips and large breasts. She was one of the tallest women in Ullapool, about as tall as Tavish. Her long platinum hair was reaching down to her hips, and her beautiful face had an oval shape, with big blue eyes and thick bloody red lips. Yet she wasn't considered beautiful. She was still much too skinny, and her arms resembled the ones of a skeleton. She never focused on anything, walked clumsily, and always spoke quietly, like she was being choked. No man wanted to marry her, because she resembled a ghastly apparition more than she resembled a charming young woman. In fact, no man ever spoke to her, except for Tavish. He considered her a friend, a very good friend, even. And he was now imagining her, Adelaide, dressed in a flowing white gown, looking radiant as always, a black veil covering her face. There was always something incredibly dark about Ghost. It sent shivers down Tavish's spine.

"She knows everything about me, ye know?" the Scot looked into the bottom of his glass, looking for another drop of beer. "I've even told her about this new prototype, I've been working on…"

"What prototype?" asked Heimlich. Tavish turned to him excitedly.

"There is this book, ya know? I wasn't supposed to look at it, but I did, roight? That's how I lost my eye." Heimlich listened to Tavish, wondering what exactly they put in Scottish ale.

"Anyway, I looked at it, and I saw this. It could revolutarnise…revlojghmnkhmnkh…" he desperately tried to pronounce "revolutionize";

"…make combat gooder!" Not the correct comparative, but close enough for a drunk.

"But I need glue."

"What glue?"

"Some kind of super glue. That sticks to everything!"

Heimlich licked the foamy rim of his beer glass.

"I may have the glue…" he smiled as Tavish looked at him like a puppy begging for food. "I use it to glue my furniture together… but it makes a stronger bonding agent than… anything."

"That sounds good!" Tavish exclaimed.

"I'm going to Germany tomorrow. I can send some to you. And if you need it again, I can give it again… for a fee…"

"You would?" Tavish jumped on his stool, almost falling to the ground like a drunken fool. "Please do. Don't forget, OK?"

Heimlich pulled out a small moist piece of paper from his jacket. He took out a pen and began writing in small, swirly letters.

"Zhere; "_Give Tavish De_… something-something… _a sample of the adhesive."_" He read off the crumpling paper. The two men laughed some more, and after exchanging their phone numbers, singing a few more songs and drinking another pint, the barkeep kindly requested them to "piss the fuck off" because they were "scaring off the bloody customers". And then Tavish walked off home, not expecting to hear from his German friend ever again.

* * *

It was about three in the morning when the semi-drunk Tavish toddled home, singing "Auld Lang Merleen" and running into shoe closets. He was greeted by his insomniac mother, sitting on the sofa, and holding an old DeGroots family portrait.

"Did you get the monster, Tavish?" she asked.

"No, mum, but eye will soon." He stuttered to his bed. His mother shook her head.

"Some Demoman ye are. If yer father were alive, he would 'ave already sold the spoils." Her voice cracked, and her long black hair fell over her face.

"I miss him, Tavish. I miss him every day."

Tavish pulled a pillow over his head. "I know mum. I know."

After about four days, just as Tavish's hangover vanished, he received a package from Germany. In it was a small vial of a strange white paste, and a note attached to it.

"_I kept my promise. You can phone me for more. We will discuss the wage._

_Heimlich_

_P.S. I take bad everything I said about Scottish beer."_

And just like that, Tavish got himself a new material to work with, and a partner for life.

* * *

It was about six o'clock in the morning when thirty three year old Tavish got a phone call from a company he wanted to work in. Tavish was knee deep in soot and ashes when he got the phone call. This was one of the dirtiest jobs he ever had, but it was also his favorite. He carefully balanced the telephone on his right shoulder, while he was setting up a couple of traps along the floor. Talking to him on the phone was a young woman, discussing his employment application.

_"So, Mister DeGroot…"_ she started; _"How did you find out about TF Industries?"_

Tavish slowly activated the trap; a small bomb next to a block of cheese, that activates when a small rodent steps on it. He immediately proceeded to the next one.

"Eye saw the ad in the paper. I tell ye, for a secret organization, ye sure promote yerself too much." He finally finished putting up the final trap. There is no way for those pesky rats ever to invade this basement again. He coughed loudly and carefully started making his exit, through the dusty narrow passage.

"_We need to spread the word in order to get the finest recruitment material from around the world."_ she explained. Tavish applied for the job about two days ago, upon finding out that one team was looking for a Demoman. It was strange how TF Industries recruited new members. Some were employed without even being told about the job. Others, like Tavish, have been told about the job in great detail.

"_Do you think that you are capable of doing this job?"_

"Whaddya mean?" Tavish stopped in the narrow hall, leaning his neck to the left, trying to avoid a white bulky water heater above him.

_"Well, according to this application of yours, you seem to have… six jobs."_ She sounded surprised. Tavish didn't find that strange at all. Every Scot in his family had at least three jobs. These were his prime earning years. And he needed all the money he could get.

"So?" he asked, waiting for the shy woman to get to the point. He already finished three jobs that day. This was his fourth one, as an exterminator, and then he had to do two more. They mostly revolved around cleaning and menial tasks, and this was the only job where he could put his bomb making skills to good use. The woman on the other end cleared her throat to fill the uncomfortable silence.

_"Do you think you will be able to perform your duties with your six other jobs?"_

"You think I'm daft, lass?" Tavish said groggily, suddenly reminding himself that he was telling off his potential employer. "Uhm… I'm planning on quitting some jobs so I can work at your industry… m-mam." he explained hastily. He opened the door to the basement, where old Ms. Grimes gave him his measly paycheck.

"_Hmmm…" _said the younger woman, more scared of Tavish than he was of her. "_Well, we have done some background checks, and you satisfy our demands. A man with such a big reputation would be an honor to have in TF Industries."_

"Ey, thanks, lass." He said with a gleam o hope in his eye.

_"However…"_

Tavish never liked this part. The "however" part never did him any good. He unhooked his work overalls as he listened to the woman.

_"We have found many quality Demomen. This position suits more than just one man."_

"I see." Tavish gulped.

_"Some clients even exceed your talent, mister DeGroot."_

"Go on." He said, grinding his teeth.

_"But there was something exceptional about you… the schematic you dropped off. It could do wonders for the world of combat. The Sticky bomb is such a practical bomb, and your prototype and design is…impeccable."_

The sticky bomb is the one thing Tavish managed to see in that unholy book that haunted his eye. He memorized every detail of it. It looked much like a red spiky ball, the segments were made out of aluminum and the spikes held potassium chlorate. They detonated manually, and were fired out of a sticky bomb launcher, much resembling a grenade launcher, but with a bigger cylinder for ammunition storage. The barrel was coated with a thin film of Australium and sodium, the mix together formed a completely stick proof mixture that prevented the bombs from getting stuck in the barrel upon firing. He dropped off the blueprints with his CV, along with a small, sticky bomb model to increase his chances.

_"These bombs you make are covered with a special adhesive…" _she continued. The adhesive was the substance he got from his German friend regularly. He only needed tiny doses, so he paid about twenty dollars for a small vial each.

"_A special adhesive that we are unable to create."_ Tavish was now getting dressed for his fifth job as a marketing executive. The woman crumbled up a piece of paper.

_"But I suppose you will need it. So we have come to a suggestion… If you provide us about… seven pound of material, that should be enough to cover your yearly supply of sticky bombs."_

Tavish felt confused. He never completely understood what people wanted to imply.

"If I get ye seven pound of the stuff…" he spoke carefully.

_"Consider yourself hired. We will be expecting the package later this week. If you do not deliver it to us, your application will be terminated."_

Tavish gulped before wishing the woman a good day. He really needed this job. He couldn't go around ironing shirts and blowing up mice forever, could he? Luckily, he always had his friendly neighborhood German to help him out. After sharing a couple of beer kegs together, you develop a connection. He immediately dialed the German, hoping that he would cover the cost of this long distance call.

_"Hallo? _Dienstags spurlose Chirurgie." chirped Natasha on the phone, sounding peppy.

"Hello, lass. I'm lookin' fer Heimlich." Said Tavish, not even attempting to say a word in German. She squealed.

"_Ah, mister DeGroot! How are you?"_

"Pretty good." He said quickly, trying to avoid small talk. "I'm actually needin' ta speak to Heimlich. 'Ave you seen him around?"

_"Oh, I'm afraid he won't be coming back until eight. He has an important presentation in Berlin."_

"On what?"

_"His Medi Gun, of course!" _Her voice then cracked with excitement. "He's being nominated for a Nobel Prize, you know?" she laughed loudly.

"You're kidding?" Tavish knew the man was good…but not that good. "Fer that bloody piece o' junk?"

_"Mmm-hmm. So, anyway, you should try calling him later. Goodbye."_ She hung up, not wanting to hold the line. Tavish returned the phone to Ms. Grimes, hoping that she won't find out that he called Germany from her phone. He sat in the car and went to his company. The job as a marketing executive was well paid, but unrewarding. And after that, he had to do the night shift at the local restaurant. So there was no way he can call Heimlich before at least… midnight. Let's just hope the doctor doesn't go to bed early.

He really, honestly and truly, needed this job.

* * *

It was about ten o'clock at night when Tavish came home early from work. There has been a small fire at the restaurant, oddly not Tavish's fault, so all the employers had to evacuate the building. The fire was contained, and all the workers could come back to their work tomorrow. Tavish was glad about those two hours off. His mother wasn't.

"What are ye doin' so early son? God help me, ye have been fired! I knew it!"

Tavish sighed as he took off his hairnet he forgot to take off during the mayhem.

"I'm not fired! I just came two hours early."

"Oh, that's fine then. But I think yer poor da is spinning in his grave thanks ta yer idleness."

"I have six jobs, ma! I'm not idle!" he said, putting his coat on the coat rack. His mother was drinking a cup of tea on the couch when he came home.

"Listen ta 'im! Six jobs! Yer Da, god rest his soul, had twenty-six jobs! And he didn't complain about him as much as ye do!"

"I ain't complainin', mum! Just so happens, I'm looking fer another job."

"So I've heard. And you'll also leave four other jobs fer that one." She shook her head, her lifeless white hair falling over her face. "Shame, shame, shame…"

"The pay is better, mum."

"Well. I suppose you can look for other jobs once you get this one." She leaned on the big green couch. Their small stone house was incredibly homey, not luxurious and actually quite modest. The only luxury they had was a small television in the living room, which they never turned on. The walls were grey and smudged, and there was always a smell of metal coming from somewhere. Tavish decided; as soon as he got this job, he'll be buying his mum a mansion. The old woman scratched her head, pulling her fingers through her greasy hair.

"I'll get more jobs. I promise." Tavish hugged the frail woman before going to the door. Heimlich can wait, he thought. He better put these two hours to good use.

"Where are ye goin, lad?"

"Nowhere, mum."

"That girl again?" his mother put both her hands on the white cane. "She's keepin' you from work, she is." She sounded irritated, but couldn't help but smile at her son religiously going to that girl.

* * *

Adelaide was sitting on her snowy rocking chair, looking in the distance. She has been living in the same old house ever since she was born, never changing location. Now she couldn't go if she wanted to. Her big white room looked the same as always. The furniture was very Victorian, small floral carvings on the headboard of her bead and a big plushy chair near the vanity mirror. Provided that the plushy chair was the most comfortable object in her room, she preferred to sit in the plain rocking chair, soothed by its screeching movement. She kept some of her drawings on her vanity desk. The first drawing on top depicted a ghostly being, a smiling girl with an eye patch and a pirate hat. She seemed to float above the ground. Adelaide looked at her cream dresser, more specifically, the big red roses it was decorated with. The only red objects in the room. It stood out from the rest of the furniture, like her red lips on her pale face. Lately, her face sunk, the once puffy cheeks now being reduced to gaping crevasses, and her lips slowly fading. Her hair was neatly braided, and she was covered with a big lavender sweater. She would never wear it, so she just tossed it on her shoulders. Her deep blue eyes were staring in the distance when she heard his footsteps. As she looked towards the door, she noticed Tavish, panting as he just ran up a flight of stairs. She smiled vaguely.

"You're early." She chuckled, her voice sounding hoarse and weak.

"We got released two hours early because of a fire." he explained, leaning on the door.

"Oh my. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Tavish approached her, stepping on the thick white carpet. It was so much more different than the cold stone he was used to stepping on. He stood beside her, looking down at her long hair.

"Are you any better?" he asked, crouching next to her.

"I'm feeling better. I finally got out of bed. Though, the doctors said I am still pretty weak, so I could go either way."

Tavish remembered the day she pulled him over to her to see his empty eye socket. His shoulders hurt from her forceful grab. No. She wasn't weak at all. All of a sudden, she chuckled.

"What is it, Ghost?"

Adelaide looked at him in the eye, a soft smile over her face. "I don't think mother would approve of you being here."

"Why not? We're not kids anymore."

"That's just it. We're not." She touched his arm casually. "Imagine what we could be doing. Just us two… alone… in my room." She shook her head.

"My mother gets the craziest ideas, doesn't she?"

The relationship between Tavish and Adelaide was more platonic than anything else. They respected and cared about each other, never going any further than that. Tavish was fine with that, though he was slightly disappointed when Ghost threw away even a hypothetical chance of it ever happening.

"She's just worried about you, Ghost. Why wouldn't she be?" Adelaide looked down at her bare feet. Tavish leaned closer to her.

"Are you…afraid?" he asked silently, as if he was walking on eggshells. Adelaide clutched her small crucifix, and took his hand in hers.

"Why would I be? I have you." Adelaide leaned her head on Tavish's chest, listening to his slow, steady heartbeat.

"How did the job application go?"

The rest of the visit was spent by Tavish telling her about the company in great detail He told her about the sticky bombs, the adhesive, and the big mansion he would buy his mother. Adelaide sat on her chair, smiling and suggesting slight modifications to his sticky. She didn't know much, but she did learn something about bombs so she could actually talk with Tavish. Some of her suggestions were actually quite decent. Soon, Tavish heard the heavy footsteps of Ghost's mom walking upstairs. He opened the window to sneak out.

"Will you come visit me tomorrow?" Adelaide smiled, poking her head out. Tavish laughed at her question.

"'Coarse eye will! We're Pirate Ghost, remember, lass?" he ran away quickly, and Adelaide couldn't help but notice a small skip in his step.

"Adelaide!" shouted her mother; "close the damn window, yer goin' ta get sicker!"

Tavish bought a small bottle of Scrumpy, and drank it while he returned home. He loved visiting Ghost. It made him feel like a kid again. "Don't get too attached ta 'er." His mother would say. "Ye don't know how long she'll last." But to Tavish, she was immortal. No earthly sickness could wipe her off. If he didn't care about her that much, maybe he would've backed away, to make it easier if she…

But now, he cared about her too much even to think about the bad things that might happen.

* * *

When he got home, he realized that it's already four in the morning. He rushed to the phone, dialing the doctor's phone number. He was hoping that this man was an insomniac. And then, he heard a sleepy croaked voice of his old acquaintance.

"Ja, hallo?" he croaked as he finally managed to pick up the phone. "Wem hat gestorben?"

"Heimlich, me ol' chum! Don't tell me yer getting an award!" shrieked Tavish a bit louder than socially acceptable.

_"Ah… I see you haff heard."_

"Heard? That peppy little nurse of yers practically shouted it in me ear." He smiled. Suddenly, he remembered why he called.

"Anyway, I'm gonna need sem more o'that magic glue you provide."Heimlich sighed.

"_It's not magic glue. It's a special zuper adhesive substance made out of human bone marrow, Australium und coagulated blood. Zhere is no magic in it."_ Tavish went silent, trying to process Heimlich's words while drunk off cider.

"_Anyvay, how much vould you need?"_

"Roughly? About… oh I donnoe… about 7 pounds." said Tavish nervously. Heimlich seemed angry.

_"Are you trying to catch zhat monster again? Because if you are trying vithout me, I swear…"_

"It ain't catching the monster, honest to God." Tavish got defensive. "Something came up. I need it for work."

The German was silent for a moment._"You need 7 pounds of adhesive…for work? Vhat kind of work?" _Tavishstuttered, like he was trying to carefully pick the words to describe it. He raised the bottle of Scrumpy, hoping that there is something left in it.

"That'd be… uh… demolition and stuff. Don't worry about the job, are you writin' the speech for that award show?"he awkwardly changed the subject.

_"Hah!"_ the German laughed; "Nein_.__I'm not writing a speech for something that may or may not happen in four months."_

"I dunnoe… you do tend to get ahead of yerself." Heimlich grew slightly irritated by this conversation. He coughed loudly at the phone.

_"Zo, about the adhesive… it won't be cheap."_

"How much would it be?"Tavish burped while pouring the Scrumpy down his throat.

_"Roughly 2000 dollars. American."_ At that moment, Tavish spat out the Scrumpy, coughing loudly.

"What? How'm I supposed to get that kind of money?!"

_"Ve are talking about 7 pounds. I will have to steal an entire skeleton for zhat kind of bone marrow. Cadavers aren't cheap." _Tavish couldn't believe the price.

"Ya, but… they're easy to make. You just shoot up a few syringes in their flesh, or whatever you do, and then…"

_"Like you said, I'm nominated for the Nobel Prize. I need to keep a low profile not to ruin my chances. __Und,__stealing a skeleton is a risk I'm not taking…for free, zhat is."_ Tavish nervously hiccupped.

"I'll see what I can do about the money."He mumbled_. _"'ave you told yer wife yet?"

"Wem? _That old hag?_" the two men chuckled. They both knew that in Heimlich's life, there was only one woman, one human being he cared for.

And it sure as hell wasn't his wife.

After the conversation was over, Tavish found himself confused, drunk and about 1750 $ short.

To think today started as such a good day.

* * *

Tavish had been working like a dog for two days, overtime and everything. He practically eradicated all the small rodents, birds and insects of Ullapool, made new promotional ideas for new Australian beverages Wankah! and Wankah! Light, Wankah! Lemon Lime being sadly rejected. He also tripled the number of customers the restaurant had (he didn't do it all by himself, but still…) and cleaned the entire National Museum of Scotland. The worst thing about it was, after all that back breaking work, he only made 200 $. And he forgot to check up on Adelaide. It was only Wednesday, and he didn't even come close to the amount of money he needed. He tried calling Heimlich and ask for a discount, but he was never at home or in his office, and he could only hear Natasha crying hysterically. He never wanted to ask her what she was crying about, so he would simply put down the phone.

But today was the worst work day ever. He has been exterminating Ms. Grimes' basement again, because she swore that she saw another rat. No matter how hard Tavish tried to explain to her that it's impossible for another rat to survive the small minefield in her basement, she was restless. He reluctantly placed another bomb, and had to wait to see the rat himself. He walked around the narrow filthy basement, stomping as he did.

Just then, he stepped on a small bomb, which then catapulted him to the water boiler. He hit his head and squealed with pain, grabbing his bleeding forehead. Suddenly, a rush of water came bursting out through a small pipe. It started flooding the basement, and Tavish ran away as fast as he could. To add insult to injury, just then, a rat ran past him and scurried onto the street. Tavish had to pay Ms. Grimes 200 $ to make up for the water damage. When he got home, he plummeted into his sofa next to his mum, and hopelessly grabbed his head. He was getting nowhere fast. Just as he thought the day couldn't get shoddier, his mum gave him a pat on the back.

"Adelaide's mum called for ye. She's gotten worse."

* * *

Tavish was greeted by Adelaide's weeping mother. She looked at him with disgust, but still managed to usher him in Ghost's room without making as much as a peep. Tavish walked slowly, nervously contemplating his surroundings. When he got into her room, Adelaide was sketching something while lying in her bed. She quickly hid the piece of paper under her pillow. Her mother left the room, leaving the two alone.

"H-hi Tavish." She croaked, like all of her energy was wasted just on a simple act of putting something under a pillow. She looked awful. Her long platinum hair looked grey, and fell onto her pillow lifelessly , like bits of string. Her deep blue eyes became glassy and red, and her lips were completely pale. If Tavish saw her looking like that, up on the hill all those years ago, he would say the hill was haunted. This was the most ghostly Ghost has ever looked. She carefully clutched her crucifix and looked at Tavish.

"Hey." He came closer to her. Her hair was sweaty and stuck to his fingers as he stroked it. She took a deep breath.

"How's the money hunt?"

"You heard?"

She nodded. Tavish didn't want to talk about the money. He didn't want to talk to her about anything. He felt incredibly guilty for not visiting her. But he knew that he couldn't cure her condition no matter what he did and no matter what he talked about. He gulped.

"Not so good. I'm afraid I ain't be gettin' the job." Adelaide frowned.

"Don't give up hope yet." She looked out the window before adding; "Don't give up hope like I did."

Tavish sat on her bed carefully. Adelaide breathed slowly and painfully, her mouth half open the whole time.

"Tavish… I think we both know how this…condition of mine is going to end…heck, we knew when it began."

It began about three months ago, when Adelaide and Tavish decided to go see a film together. Adelaide claimed that she had a cold, constantly coughing in a white tissue. She did so frequently during the movie, much to the discomfort of the audience members.

"I'm fine." she would say. She assured Tavish that there was nothing to worry about, even while she coughed into the small white tissue paper, it's surface slowly becoming red. It was ironic in a way: her red lips on her white face made her look vibrant and full of life, and now, those red specks on a white tissue were killing her.

"Don't go around sayin' that!" he almost yelled. Nevertheless, Adelaide took off her small platinum crucifix. She gently put it in Tavish's hand. He tried to push it back to her, but she clenched his fist, so he held the small piece of jewelry.

"I don't need it anymore. I don't care if I get into heaven." She looked up into the ceiling. "What is heaven if I don't have you there with me?"

Tavish shuddered.

"I can't…I can't let you do this. Maybe you'll pull through! Hell, you will pull through!"

"Tavish!" she yelled for the first time in her life, just before she let her head plop back onto the pillow, exhausted.

"Tavish, keep that with you. As long as you have it, I'm there with you." She turned on her hip and promptly fell asleep.

"It's wasted on me." was the last thing she said before her breathing pattern became even, deep, slow breaths. Tavish looked at the crucifix clenched in his large hand. He gulped. He would love to put it back on that smooth, white neck of hers, but he couldn't. If this was Ghost's wish, to take it with him, he would obey it. He slipped out the white room and onto the street. He didn't know where he was going, but his feet led him to town, and he followed them, his eyes looking as glassy as Adelaide's.

* * *

"Don't give up hope yet." she said, Tavish remembered. "As long as you have it, I'm there with you." she said. She wanted him to get the job. She wanted him to get the money. If she could, she would give him the money herself.

These thoughts flew through Tavish's mind as he walked across the dusty road, his footsteps echoing. He held the crucifix tightly, and he walked up to an old building. It was a simple stone house, quite common for this part of Scotland. He opened the big glass door, half aware of what he's doing. Inside was a larger bald man, eating a bagel. He gulped down the pastry, and spoke to Tavish.

"Hello, Sir, how can I help you today?"

Tavish swallowed some of his spit, as his eyes quickly went from the large cash register, to the crucifix his best friend gave him. "_As long as you have it, I'm here with you."_ Maybe…maybe this is exactly what she wanted him to do.

"Eye…" he licked his dry lips; "Oi would like to…pawn this."

He presented the small ornament on the glass counter, and listened to some Beatles' song in the background. The man examined it closely, like it was a piece of junk, and not a precious keepsake. He occasionally muttered something.

"About thirty years old… good condition… slightly faded… three small diamonds, about three carats each…" the man seemed slightly more disappointed the longer he looked at it. Tavish gulped again, a strange guilt rushing through him. She wanted him to get the job. Maybe this was her way of giving him the money. It's completely selfless of her.

_Maybe you got it wrong. Maybe it's completely selfish of you._

"Hm… the chain is in good condition… the links are slightly spread…" the man finally ended his analysis.

"It's a pretty decent piece. You sure you want to sell it?"

Tavish nodded, without saying a word.

"Where did you get this from?" asked the man raising it, and examining it while the bright light shined above it.

"An old friend." Shrugged Tavish, nervously leaning to the left. God, he would kill for a drink right now.

"Alright." The man looked at Tavish; "I'll give you 1.500 for it."

"Deal." Tavish looked down.

"Really? Ye don't want to haggle?" Tavish shrugged. He didn't want to haggle. He wanted to leave as soon as he possibly could. The large man sighed, disappointedly. He gave him the money, and Tavish ran outside. It took him exactly two hours to convert the money into dollars, wire it to the German, buy himself a bottle of Scrumpy and make a phone call. He sat on the sofa, phone in one hand and a drink in the other, feeling sick with guilt.

_Maybe this is what she wanted._

_No. This is what you wanted, you selfish fuck!_

Tavish threw up a little in his mouth, realizing what he had done. But he doesn't need a crucifix to remember her. She can live through it. She is strong, she can live through anything! And soon, as soon as he gets his first paycheck, he will buy it back for her.

This realization still didn't make him feel any less sick.

"_Hallo_?" Heimlich swallowed something. Tavish took a swig of Scrumpy.

"I got da money."He slurred.

"_What_?" Heimlich tried to recognize the voice.

"Ah said, I got da money. 2000 dollars. Wired to ya. Now you get me the stuff."

_"You…"_ Heimlichseemed taken; _"You actually got ze money?"_

"Roight. Now you get me the stuff. I expect them soon."

_"Vell, it isn't zat easy, my friend. I haff to…"_

"Tough break, then. I got the money, you get the stuff. I gotta go now. Send me the adhersive stuff thing later this week. You don't do it, and I break yer legs."

And with that, Tavish ended the conversation, finishing the bottle and quickly running to the bathroom to throw up.

* * *

Only one day later, Tavish received a phone call from TF Industries. He was hung-over from yesterday's binge drinking, so he was clutching his head the entire time.

"Hello?" he slurred.

_"Good afternoon, mister DeGroot."_

Tavish recognized the voice. The same woman he talked to about four days ago. He still had trouble comprehending that it's already afternoon, since he just got out of bed.

"Oi…Oi'm really sorry. Aye, should've sent ya the glue days ago. I understand if…"

_"On the contrary. The adhesive substance has reached us. We are pleased to announce that…"_

"Wait a tick!" Tavish yelled, trying to figure out if the sun is rising or setting; "reached you?"

_"Oh, right! TF tracked your calls and intercepted the package from your supplier. It's on its way to New Mexico as we speak." _

Tavish was confused. He wasn't sure what to think about TF tracking his calls, or intercepting his packages. But…did this mean…

_"We are pleased to announce that you are officially a RED Demoman."_

Tavish stood by the phone, his mouth gaping open. It was so… easy. He finally got himself a job. A well paying job he will actually like. He had to tell someone, anyone.

"Ghost!" he yelled and ran out of the house. The green handle of the phone was hanging on its spiral chord, almost touching the floor.

_"Sir? Sir? I…I think we're breaking up, Sir!"_

He ran quickly to the big two story house. He shrieked as soon as he saw its white brick. He ran to the black door, knocking with intense force. Adelaide's mother opened the door. Tavish didn't mind her. He was too happy to spend any time on that old hag. He raised his head up and looked along the staircase.

"Ghost! Ghost!"

He suddenly saw the woman's lip quiver.

"You unholy buffoon! Why must you be so cruel?" she clenched her fists. And just then, he had a moment of realization.

"Adelaide!" he pushed the disgusted mother to the side and rushed up the stairs. Adelaide's door was wide open. He walked in to see her laying on her bed, her mouth half open and eyes closed. She always looked like that when she was sleeping. But something was different.

He saw a man looking over her. He wore a dark robe with a white collar. He had a large crucifix hanging from his neck. His fingers went over Adelaide's pale face, slowly becoming a foul shade of blue.

"A…Adelaide?" asked Tavish hopefully.

The priest looked at Tavish, his eyes filling up with tears. He walked up to him slowly, steadily; like a bearer of bad news he was. He reached out his arm and placed it on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry my child."

The priest walked out the door, possibly to comfort the weeping elderly woman downstairs. Tavish looked at his beloved Adelaide. Her skin was transparent, her lips were dry and colorless. He had her arm raised up on her pillow. Tavish gently put his hand on her sunken cheek. She was still warm. If he got a call from TF a minute sooner, she would have seen him. She would have known.

_"As long as you have it, I'm there with you."_ Tavish remembered the crucifix. But he didn't have it, that's the whole bloody point.

He suddenly remembered the piece of paper she quickly hid under her pillow when he came to visit her. It seemed strange, moving her stiff torso to lift up her pillow. But he managed to find it, crumpled and drawn in pencil. It was a surprisingly detailed drawing of two kids. One had big empty eyes and floated above the other child, who was wearing an eye patch over his head. They were sitting on the hill, on a starry night. The boy seemed shocked, but the girl seemed content, holding the boy tightly.

She remembered. She remembered that day to the very last detail. He left the sheet of paper on her breasts, hoping, just for a second, that they will start moving as she started breathing again. She didn't. Tavish went outside, not even saying goodbye to his Ghost, not expressing his condolences to her mother. He quietly went to the bar. And there, he started drinking. He stayed there and drank for what seemed like an eternity, until it was time to leave for New Mexico.

* * *

He was the first to come into the resupply room. He felt completely broken, but tried to look happy, or at least, drunkenly content. He looked around the big white room. A voice announced that the mission began in 60 seconds, but it later turned out that this was merely a test. This annoyed a young man, who later started boring a tall, skinny man to death. Somehow, this turned into them guessing the nationalities of their teammates.

"Scottish." They both said in unison, as soon as they looked at the Demoman.

"…and that guy is German. Now tell me I don't have a gift!" the young man yelped at the older man holding a sniper rifle.

"Bloody hell, mate, even I could tell that 'e's German." The man seemed irritated.

Imagine Tavish's surprise when he saw his old friend. Tavish immediately ran up to him.

"You old tit! Good to see ya! Ey, listen, thanks for the gloo. It helped me get the job." He forced himself to smile. The German didn't try to hide his discomfort.

"Really? Well it helped me lose mine…_Dummkopf."_

Tavish returned to his place, drowning out an older Texan's yelling.

"Whaddya mean ya won't let her? Is she there? Let me speak to her!"

Tavish's sorrow didn't end that day. But all the Scrumpy helped ease it up. And for now, that's the best he could do. Tavish reached into his pocket and felt it; a small black velvet bow. Adelaide did leave him something after all. Tavish smiled sadly and proceeded on to the next bottle.

* * *

**A/N:**_ Told you it was long. Sorry if I strayed from my humorous descriptions of the members' origin.  
_Make sure you review and tell me where I went wrong.  
The name of the main charachter in the next chapter starts with the letter P. She co-stars with one of the more popular classes I promised I'll write about. Stay tuned!


	9. Driving Miss Crazy Part 1 of 3

**Author's** **note**: Hello my wonderful readers! Welcome to my next chapter! And, no, it's not about the Pyro.

**St. Adelaide** is Sniper's town of origin. It's not in any way related to the poor Ghost I killed off in the last chapter.

So, without further ado, I present to you **The Great Australian Roadtrip, **or **Driving Miss Crazy**, or, my least favorite chapter title, **Snipepper.**

* * *

**_Day_ _0:_**

A young girl walked out of the B6 gate after flying for over 19 hours from Boston to Adelaide. There were two stopovers, one in San Francisco, and one in Sydney. She had absolutely no idea what time it was, or why her film school professor had to send her there. But, as any young film making enthusiast, she always loved a challenge. She probably got that from her dad.

As her large black loosely tied martens clacked along the bright marble floor of the small airport, heads turned. This 18 year old girl isn't what the returning Australians or the visiting foreigners usually saw. She wasn't tall, per se, but she had a certain presence that made her stand out in the crowd more than anyone else. She pulled her matte black suitcase behind her, stretching out her lean arm, whose nails were painted black and whose wrists were decorated with many colorful plaid bracelets. She wore a plain black mini skirt, raised about two inches above her knees. The shocking part was that she wasn't wearing anything under it; no stockings, no pantyhose, nothing. And to top off her outfit, or rather lack of it, she wore a skimpy black corset, revealing her shoulders and tiny cleavage. She moved her hips as she walked, capturing everyone's gaze.

Many men's heads turned as they saw her, and many women's stomachs turned, too.

The girl scoped the area, huffing the whole time as she slowly approached the exit. Her thick red hair fell in layers over her face, and was raised high, looking like a red fluffy cloud above her almost completely round face. Her narrow green eyes quickly went from left to right, looking for someone. She clutched her camera, a bulgy metal object, which was a farewell present from her father when she went to film school. It was now a crucial element for completing her first year. It was also the only thing connecting her to her home. If she lost it, she wouldn't know what to do. She stopped and sighed.

"Boy, it's hawt enough to boil a baboon's ass in here!" she suddenly exclaimed in the most outrageous Bostonian-Texan accent, much to everyone else's amusement. The girl panted and switched on her camera. She picked up the boxy contraption, barely holding it in her right hand. She pressed her face against the viewfinder and began capturing the airport, the screen showing arrivals, the many registers, all the mothers shielding their children behind them. Nobody knew where this pale, oddly dressed creature came from, but nobody wanted to take a chance and find out.

"A friendly greetin' I'm getting here from Adelaide." She spoke, her voice mixing with an announcement for the Melbourne flight departing in half an hour. The girl stepped into the blinding sun. She quickly scoped the large paved parking lot, and then she saw him. She scratched her left ear, decorated with three turquoise earrings. She slowly made her way to the man, idly standing next to his Land Rover camper van. The girl never really understood cars or vans of any kind, but to her, it appeared to be a medium sized greenish camper van, whose top half was an eggshell color, and leaning over the bottom half, like an oversized hat. She chuckled at her general stupidity when it came to motorized vehicles.

The man standing beside the van examined his fingerless gloves before he looked at the colorful creature slowly making her way towards him. He had seen many strange things in his life, a tracker of dangerous game in the vast unforgiving Australian outback, but he never saw anything quite so… flashy. He raised his eyebrows as he saw her.

"So you guys also do air travel? I thought you only travelled in those tiny cars?" he made a joke, possibly the first one he made in months. The girl lifted her head to take a better look at the man she was assigned to. He looked at her behind his yellow aviator glasses, his brown panama falling over his forehead. He had a blank expression on his face despite the slightly insulting joke he had just made. He had a boxy torso, and looked more intimidating than he probably gave himself credit for. The tall slim man towered over the girl, examining her. His penetrating gaze stopped on her bulky camera.

"So you're the girl?"

The girl nodded, trying not to show fear.

She signed herself up to this. A documentary on the daily life of an adventurous Australian, said her film professor. He didn't want any nature or historical documentary. He had to pick the worst idea in the book which could result in any of his students to get mutilated or killed. Some went to Canada to explore the vast tundra. Some went to Africa to make a film about headhunters. This girl should consider herself lucky, forced to be with this man, who apparently owed her professor a favor since he let a strange girl document his every move for the next three weeks.

If that rusty old van of his doesn't crash, she'll be fine.

The man opened the door for her, and she promptly sat on the passenger seat, shoving her suitcase in the back. She buckled her seat belt, slightly terrified about the driver forgetting to do the same. She held the heavy camera in her lap. The engine started running, and they were off. They moved away from the terminals and planes whooshing in the distance, and were soon on an endless road, in the middle of nowhere.

The girl smiled. This is what she wanted. She wanted an adventure and she was going to get it. So, come on Australia! Show her what you've…

_**Day 1:**_

…got.

"Nice to see you awake, Sheila!" he said in his Australian accent, slowly steering the van to the right. The girl woke up, her neck feeling stiff and drool dripping down her shoulder.

"What day is it?" she mumbled through her dry throat, desperately trying to find some liquid around the place… a bottle of water, Tang, her own spit. Anything!

"You slept for nine straight hours, Sheila. 'Aven't 'eard a peep from you since you sat there." He said, his voice had a certain hint of playfulness in it.

"I already loike you more than I thought I would."

The girl moaned. She looked through the window, only to see more desert, not a single cloud in sight, yellow sand surrounding the road, and a single advertisement for Old Timer beer. She rubbed her eye and grabbed the camera, switching it on.

"Did I miss anything while I was out?" she asked, surveying the van. It was pretty dark inside, the light bursting through the dusty windows did nothing to make it look brighter. For some reason, the man held a sniper rifle on a gun rack behind him. She gulped. A small bobble head shook on the command board near the steering wheel. She looked behind her to see a small makeshift hallway, a closet on one side and a door on the other. In the other end, there was a small wooden table, and a makeshift bed; a red couch with a rustled green blanket on top of it.

"Nah. Nothin' special." He continued to turn slightly to the right again. The girl pointed her camera at the window again. Two vultures were tearing off a kangaroo's carcass, stretching the pink skin like bubblegum. The girl shook.

"I'm tryin' to film a documentary about ya, oddly 'nuff" she said. "Anything I missed? Did you do anything while I was out cold? Come on, man, anything would be useful."

The older man kept his eyes on the road.

"Nope. Never did anythin'. I mean, I would 'ave, but you kept your damn legs crossed all the time."

The girl felt a jolt go through her body at this remark. She never quite got used to these, though she got them a lot. A worker in a brothel in Boston, that covers itself up by selling used cars by day. Her professor said that he didn't tell the man anything about her. Obviously, he let this one thing slip by. She crossed her legs tighter.

"So, uh… For the sake of the film… could you please state your name…Sir?" she tried to sound formal. The man continued to steer down the road, not really getting anywhere.

"Mr. Mundy's me name."

"Mundy? Do you… do you have a first name?"

The man managed to look at the frightened girl.

"Oi'm Mister Mundy, and that's all you need to know." He returned to looking at the road. The girl was afraid that she didn't bring enough film to make the movie. But now she thought that she brought too much. Nine hours on the road, and she only got his name, and his slightly shady camper van's interior.

"Wot's your name, miss?" he asked politely.

"Um, Mister Mundy, Sir? I'm the one conducting an interview."

"Oi know. Oi just wanted to know what's the name of the person I'm responsible for the next three weeks."

The girl gulped.

"Well… it's Peppermint, actually."

The man closed his eyes and shook his head.

"No, no, Oi don't mean your bloody whore brothel name! Your real name! You know!" he looked at her judgmentally. "The koind your parents gave you before you decided to betray them."

The girl ignored this remark, but still frowned upon the man, now flicking the bobble head.

"Well, Sir," she said, practically spewing venom; "if you must know, my name is Pepper. Pepper Conagher."

"Your parents actually named you Pepper?" he stared into the never ending road silently for a moment.

"Wow. They didn't have much faith in you, did they?"

Pepper switched off the camera. If she was going to get insulted all day just as she woke up, she won't even bother filming it today. Yes it's true. She worked in a brothel. But it was temporary. And her parents only named her Pepper because…

No. She didn't want to think about what this creep said. She just felt like brushing her teeth, and then having a shower for about four hours. She left the camera on the control board and stuttered to the bathroom down the short hall, not saying a word. The bright Australian 7 p.m. sun shined high up on the horizon.

_**Day 2:**  
_

_Okay, take two…_

Pepper has been driving in the vast desert road with Mr. Mundy for over 24 hours. On their way they had one stop. A small gas station where they stopped only for Mundy to pump some gas. Pepper used the opportunity to take a shower in the nearby bathroom. She never really liked these old, rusty showers meant for weary travelers who can't stay in a hotel, or live in a camper van with no shower. But if this is the best she could get, she would have to deal with it. She managed to pull herself out of the tight skirt and corset, kicking off her martens boots. She tossed a small white towel over the shower curtain holder and turned on the water.

"Jesus, fuck, that's cold!" she screamed as the water began to run. She remembered these showers now, from some of her family road trips. They had two settings: melt ice-cream and frozen tundra. After an invigorating three minute shower, she wrapped herself with the towel, carrying her clothes over her shoulder. She was relieved when she stepped out to the raging sun. Mundy looked at her, slowly removing the gas pump nozzle, trying not to splash anything with the gasoline.

"She looks about ready. Care to go, Sheila?"

Pepper nodded slowly, her teeth still chattering. Her dad always made fun of her when she would step out of the cold shower, complaining. Pepper was considered slightly spoiled in Bee Cave. She could just imagine what Mundy though of her, here in the Australian outback.

She walked across the burning sand, the hot stone particles heating her body nicely. The small concrete buildings around her seemed bleak. She kind of missed the noisy, normal, busy Massachusetts. Mundy held the door open for her, and she stepped onto the sticky grayish carpet. The disgusting part about it was that it was originally a soft shade of yellow.

Pepper quickly opened her suitcase and pulled out a blue striped shirt, knowing that she won't even attempt to squish herself in the tight corset. It originally belonged to her dad, but as time flew by, the shirt began to fit her better than it fit him. A short wave of nostalgia flew across her mind. She got herself out of the towel, looking over her shoulder to check if Mundy was looking at her bare body.

He wasn't.

Pepper was relieved, and somewhat disappointed, and continued to get dressed in peace. She then hopped onto the passenger seat, and promptly pulled out her camera. During the past 24 hours, she only found out about his name. This documentary wasn't going to go well. She moved a small leather tag from the camera lens.

_If found, return to __Conagher, Green Lane 6, Bee Cave, Texas_.

She smiled at the thought of her big house back in Texas. Compared to it, her studio apartment looked like crap. But the apartment was liberating. It was a symbol of freedom. She was free to explore the world. Like she did, just now. The van pulled out of the parking lot, and turned to the road.

"So, Mr. Mundy," she started; "would you be kind to tell us what you do for a livin'?"

Mundy stared into the desert, not changing his expression. For a brief moment, she thought that he was going to ignore her. But, he was a professional, and professionals know better than that.

"Well, Sheila, I consider myself to be a hunter. A wildlife hunter, a headhunter, a bounty hunter… I'm everything. I'm a zoologist, an assassin, and every damn thing in between."

He briefly looked at the camera.

"And you know what? I'm damn good at it."

Pepper shook at how apathetically he spoke of his occupation.

"Should you really be telling me that? On camera?"

Mundy shrugged.

"I said I'm good. Why should I worry?"

"So, you trust me that I won't find a way to use this against you?" she joked. Mundy leaned closer to her.

"Listen, Sheila. In my career, I spend months on my own. Alone. And if isolation has taught me anything, it's this:" he looked at her behind his glasses;

"You don't have to rely on other people if you never miss."

Pepper looked at his sniper rifle hanging behind him. She gulped.

"So, Sir, what are you currently…hunting for?" she managed to overcome her fear. The Australian took one gloved hand off the wheel, and opened up a small compartment. In it was a file; names and pictures of four men. One was crossed off.

"See these people? Illegal Australium dealers. And somebody wants 'em dead. That's all I know, and that's all I care."

"Ah. Australium!" Pepper averted the subject of Mundy being a paid assassin. She dramatically turned the camera over to her.

"Australians are very secretive about their precious Australium, rumored to make a genius out of a mumbling knucklehead." She turned the camera over to the gunman.

"Do you know where your Australium supplies are?"

"No." he said closing the compartment.

"Told ya!" said Pepper jokingly to the camera.

"Enough about me, Sheila. What's your occupation, then?"

Pepper turned over to him, half shocked by the question.

"Ummm… I don't think you comprehend how a documentary works. I'm merely a camerawoman."

She was terrified of answering the man's question. When she was done with the camera, she wasn't allowed to edit the film. Her professor would see everything, every single flaw. And every flaw could possibly ruin her chances of enrolling in the school next year.

"Aw, come on. I owe Prof. Dunklestein a favor because he helped me fix this rusty old banger." He hit the command board, and just then, the engine let out a despicable moan. Pepper tightened her seatbelt, noticing that it's tattered.

"I still 'ave to know about you. You could be a rapist, for all I know."

Pepper shook her head. "I could never be a rapist."

"Please?" he looked straight at her with his pretend pleading eyes. Pepper smiled.

"Alright, what do you want to know?"

"Wot's with the brothel thing?"

The Bostonian Texan picked her ear with her index finger, trying to clear it.

"I'm…sorry?"

"The brothel thing. You're a child, for God's sake. Wot are you thinking, workin' in a place like that?"

Pepper frowned. "That is none of your concern. It's complicated." She held the camera steady, waiting for a response. She swallowed some spit before she clarified her answer.

"It's… it's just a stepping stone in my career."

"Wot career? You plannin' on being a call girl? Bein' an escort? Bein' an exotic dancer of some sort?"

Pepper kept the camera rolling, but turned her head to the side in frustration. Mundy may have not been the nicest man, but he did know when he went too far.

"Alroight, alroight, Sheila, I was kiddin'. You don't need to get all pissy."

Pepper sighed, slowly turning her head to the man, stoically looking at the bright blue sky in front of him. The road was completely deserted. He could drive with his feet while eating a sandwich and he still wouldn't be able to hit anything. She admired how calm he was. Almost like her dad.

Suddenly, she saw something terrifying. Behind the marksman, beyond the dusty window, there was something fleshy. It had a shining pointy head, and moved at about 100 miles per hour. It had long, orange legs, and a wide feathery body. She pointed the camera at it, and it vanished in a second, flapping its flesh against itself. Pepper was mesmerized by the sheer horror.

"Was that the Queen of Australia riding an ostrich naked in the middle of the desert?"

"No." the marksman responded so simply, leaving Pepper to wonder.

"That's an emu, not an ostrich."

**_Day 4:_**

It was about twelve o'clock in the afternoon when Mundy finally stopped driving. He turned to the right and parked n the clear space near the road.

"Here we are." He exclaimed, putting the car in park.

"Thank gawd." Pepper said, stretching her legs. Her body was stiff from the driving, and she somehow managed to burn just from sitting in the car. Mundy took his rifle from the wall when he saw Pepper getting up from her chair, standing on the ground like a newborn deer. Mundy opened his eyes widely and pushed her back on the chair.

"Whoa, Sheila. You're not going anywhere!"

"What? Why?" he voice was pleading, almost desperate. She looked at the long rifle by his hip. She opened her mouth.

"Oh mah gawd!" she said in her nauseating mixed accent. "You's goin' huntin, ain't cha?"

Yes it was true. He was going hunting. This was the place where he heard his first victim delivers his supplies. He drops off a package and makes a phone call. In about an hour, the person arrives for it. By then, the dealer is long gone. Normally, Mundy would wait for the man to finish the phone call, kill him, and then wait and kill the victim. But his employer only ordered him to take care of the dealer. And in this job, tampering with someone's life, it's best to follow those orders.

"Yes I am. I'll be back in a few hours." He proceeded to the exit.

"Wait a sec! I have to come with yous!" the girl had her camera at the ready. She needed something interesting. Yesterday was a bust. Two minutes of her asking about certain things in his van. Out of the four days she has been here, two have gone to waste.

_"What's dis?"_

_"A bobble head."_

_"Where'd ya get it?"_

_"A garage sale in the neighbor's backyard."_

_"What's that?"_

_"A set of shark teeth."_

_"Where'd ya get those?"_

_"I fought a shark after it swam up to the surface on a beach I was on."_

_"Why were you on a beach."_

_"'Cuz I bloody felt loike it."_

_"Why is your engine beeping?"_

_"It detects nosy little Sheilas that ask too many questions."_

After that filming fiasco, she needed good material, and she needed it fast.

"Aw, come on, Mundy! I just need to film some a dis!" she pointed to the camera, lifting it up with both her hands.

"No way, Sheila! It's safer in here."

"Screw safety, I want to pass this final exam thing!" she jumped up, trying to stare down the man three inches higher than her. "I'm going with ya."

"Not a chance." he said with a steely expression.

Realizing that ordering won't work, Pepper tried pleading.

"Puh-leese?" she pouted her lips, sticking out her chest and clasping her hands together.

"No."

"… I'll be really quiet."

"It ain't about being bloody quiet, it's about staying alive."

"I can stay alive!" she said hopefully; "I've managed to stay alive for about eighteen years now. I'll be really good. Puh-leeeese?"

Mundy knocked her back on her chair with a thump.

"How about you just film me leave, cuz' I ain't letting ya follow me."

"But you have to!" she jumped back up, and her facial expression became soft, and her voice slightly deeper.

"If you let me, I'll show you my boobies…" she batted her long eyelashes at him.

"Whoever still refers to them as "boobies" shouldn't be allowed to show them." He concluded, making his way towards the exit. He suddenly felt something, like a chain surrounding his ankle. Pepper managed to throw herself on the ground, and cup his ankle. She looked at his once more, flashing a big smile.

"Please?"

"Piss off!" he commanded as he tried to pull his foot away. She was simply too strong or too determined to let go anytime soon. Mundy thought of how he wasn't desperately grabbed by skimpily dressed 18-year-olds since he was 20 and just bought a car. Ah, memories…

"Stubborn little Sheila, aren't ya?" he said, with no less venom in his tone than before.

"I'll be good if you let me…"

"Look, I can't today, it's too important. So why don't you just go back to your seat and…"

"No!" she buried her head in the dirty carpet, sounding like a spoiled 5-year-old. "I want to come with you."

"Oi don't have toime for this!" he looked at the girl in revulsion. Pepper pulled her body closer to him.

"Puh-leeeeeeese?" she cooed again, for one final time. Mundy needed to get a move on, and, he figured, it would be better if he didn't have to drag her all the way to the point. He sighed, grasping the bridge of his nose.

"Fine."

Pepper shrieked with joy and grabbed the camera. At that point, Mundy pulled the collar of her shirt upwards, bringing himself into her face.

"Oi swear to God, if you screw this up, Sheila, I will personally toss you out on the street. Got it? You fuck this up, and you're walking to Boston!"

Pepper gave him a reassuring smile and mimicked zipping her mouth shut. Somehow, this wasn't reassuring to Mr. Mundy…

Twenty eight minutes later, Pepper and Mundy came near some large silos in the middle of the desert. They were white, bulky objects, used for storing grain. This grain was used to make the infamous Wankah! Energy drink, popular in Australia and some parts of Europe. Pepper knew that they were walking for twenty eight minutes, because she managed to run the Stones' song "Satisfaction" through her head seven times, while quietly filming the marksman on his way to the camping point. Pepper looked up at the large silo, with the symbol for Wankah! Painted on it; a red kangaroo's silhouette boxing with a purple koala bear. A slap in the face for all the poor non-stereotypical Australians.

"Roight…" Mundy rubbed his palms together before firmly grabbing the white metal ladder leading to the top.

"Try to keep up, Sheila!"

Pepper looked at the high metal contraption. She scoffed and turned off the camera, putting it safely in her backpack. She reached to the metal handle to climb up.

"Yeee-ouch!" she said quite loudly as she burned her hand on the metal rod, sizzling from the Australian winter sun. Oh yeah; it's supposed to be winter in Australia. Then why the hell isn't it cold?

Not to risk getting thrown on the street, Pepper shut herself up and began climbing; she barely made it to the tenth step when Mundy came up to the top, and squatted under the roof of the silos, sitting on the metal ring surrounding the hollow grain filled space inside of the cylindrical contraption.

"Ow. Ow. Ow." Pepper managed to climb to the top, her hands burning up. She took out her camera and scooted over to Mundy.

"What's with those jars?" she asked innocently, pointing at the glass jars with red plastic caps.

"You'll see soon enough."

Soon enough. Right, but how soon? According to what he said, they could be waiting hours in this thing. And that's providing that the man even comes here. What the hell was she supposed to do for hours?

_I can't get no  
Sa-tis-fac-tion…_

Proceed to the end and repeated.

"How much longer are we supposed to wait here?" she finally asked, after the fifteenth repetition.

"I told you to keep quiet, Sheila." Mundy didn't seem to move during their hour long stake-out.

"But I'm boooored…" she continued to whine. She squinted through the small opening in the silo, scoping the area.

"This him?"

"No, Sheila."

"That him?"

"No, Sheila."

"That?"

"That's a bloody cactus, Sheila. I suggest you shut up."

Pepper stared at her feet and hugged her knees. Her long red locks fell over them.

"Do you like doing this?"

"Wot?" asked Mundy, not averting his eyes.

"The hunting. P-people, I mean?"

"Do oi loike people hunting?" he phrased the question half-mockingly. "A job's a job. Loike any professional, if someone hires me…"

"Yeah, but do ya like it?" she placed her elbows on her knees. Mundy didn't want to speak to her.

"Wot 'ave I told you about throwing you out the van?"

"At least it would be less boring walking to Boston." She muttered, turning back to the small window. She looked at the trees, swaying in the wind. A couple of desert rabbits ran across the road. A car drove by, splattering one of them.

"But, " she continued; "are you ever afraid someone would…you know…" she took out her camera and turned it on. "Find out about you? Try to hurt you? Or your family? If…if you have a family…"

Mundy's face seemed to stiffen.

"I ain't afraid. I'm an expert at what I do. So, I plan every moment. Because…" at that moment, a wicked smile crept over his stubble.

"Sometimes you just need to plan a…HEAD!" he pulled the trigger and a loud bang was heard. Some birds flew by and Pepper screamed, blocking her ears and dropping the camera to her thighs.

"Well. That was fast." Mundy looked at his watch before quickly making his way down, carrying his jars and putting the sniper rifle behind his back. Pepper shivered, barely managing to grab the camera and lower herself down. The sizzling handles burned her hands, but her hands were too paralyzed to notice.

Soon they walked up to the man Mundy shot. He wore a simple black business suit and green tie. He was about to make a phone call, he managed to get up to the payphone before his brains got splattered. He dropped a briefcase to the ground, and fell on the sand instantly. Both of his hands were up over his head, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Mundy took out the file and examined the picture of the man. Then he took a closer look at the victim's face, which was horribly disfigured.

"This is him." He concluded before crossing off his name on the file.

"You getting' all this, Sheila?"

Pepper kept the camera close to her, and it recorded every detail.

"Um…Mister Mundy? Do you mind if I wait in the van?"

"Alroight." Mundy shrugged, and started pulling the victim's teeth out one by one. Pepper turned around, switching off the camera and slowly walking to the van. In about thirty minutes, she sat in her seat and fastened her seatbelt. And she continued to sit like that, back straight and eyes front, long after Mundy started to drive away, the man's teeth in a small plastic bag. He didn't take any of the Australium, though.

They have been driving for two hours, and strangely, Pepper didn't say anything.

"Oi told you it would be weird, Sheila. I told you that you weren't ready for it."

Pepper was quiet. Mundy looked at her blank expression, as if she had just seen a ghost.

"Look, Sheila, what oi did back there is my job. If the man didn't deserve to die, oi wouldn't 'ave done it."

Pepper still looked in the distance. Mundy shrugged and turned on the radio.

"You'll understand my profession soon enough."

The song playing on the radio was none other than "Satisfaction". Mundy never really enjoyed the Stones, but apparently, Pepper did.

"I…can't…get…no…" she hummed quietly. Her eyes were still glassy, but she made a sound, singing along to her favorite band.

"You like the Stones, do you?" Mundy made a left turn while looking at the setting sun.

"You don't?" she looked at him disappointedly.

"They're alroight." He shrugged. Frankly, he didn't like any type of music to begin with. Not that he told anyone that. To him, music was a waste of time; simple background noise. He never understood who would get seriously caught up in it.

"I just figured a young Sheila like you preferred…" he looked away from the road and onto the ceiling. He snapped his fingers as he was thinking, and Pepper thought that they were going to crash at one point.

"The Beatles?" she guessed.

"Yeah. Them pretty boys." He shrugged. Pepper smiled at him.

"The Beatles. Right. Don't get me wrong, they aren't bad, but…um…" she looked out the window, still thinking about the image she saw today.

"Who's gonna listen to The Beatles in 20 years, anyway?"

**_Day 5:_**

"So when exactly did you become an assassin?"

Pepper is holding her camera pointed at Mundy, while they're driving through a small town at 9 a.m. Everyone in this town appears to be drinking Wankah! and sporting a luxurious moustache. The town seems pretty populated, but, according to Mundy, it's nothing compared to the really big cities like Sydney or Canberra. They drove past The Ministry of Moustache Sciences. Pepper wanted to spend some film on that, but Mundy was in a hurry.

"Well, I started the assassin business when oi was 27, roughly. But I started hunting long before that. I started hunting humans after college." He shook his head. "I was pretty crap at it, though. You handled yourself well yesterday, after seeing a dead body."

Pepper shook at the thought. As a girl, she was used to seeing decapitated chickens and farm animals on her Nana's farm up north. And she cared about that man far less than she ever cared about any chicken. Still, the sight was terrifying. So when Mundy told her he needed to "take care of someone else" she didn't insist on coming with him.

"27, huh? That's pretty young. So you've been an assassin for, what? 10? 15 years?"

Mundy frowned at the girl. He tried not to shout at her. Emphasis on _tried_.

"I'm thirty-five, ya tit!" he screamed, with a slightly pitchy tone. Pepper found it annoyingly funny. She rocked her camera on her lap like a small child. Mundy flicked the bobble head in anger, its head shaking wildly, almost falling off.

"Well, time for me to go, Sheila." He said after parking behind a bank. This time, he would get up on a large clock tower and shoot an Australium dealer near town square.

Was it safe? No. Was it worth the money? Hardly. Why do it then? To get away from you, Sheila.

Mundy took his sniper rifle, holding it straight upwards. He didn't try to hide the weapon, or to conceal his identity. Yet no one seemed to pay any attention to the man stepping out of a camper van with a rifle in his hand. Pepper sat in her chair, examining her nails. Knowing him, he's probably going to be a while. Hopefully he paid for the parking.

Suddenly, she saw it. His brown panama hat. He left it on the table before he went outside. Pepper knew right then that it was her duty to wear that stinkin' hat. She carefully approached the small brown table. She put the hat up on her head. It smelled of toast and coconut, not that she noticed.

She looked behind her. There was a large mirror on the side of the wall. She squinted at it and looked around. Wherever he was, he wasn't going to return any time soon. She cleared her throat.

_"Oi'm thirty-foive, ya tit!"_ she yelped, giggling at her shenanigans. She wasn't doing badly at mimicking an Aussie accent, either.

_"Oi'm a cranky old assassin who lives in a van and pisses in jars."_ She lifted her head up as she spoke. _"Be quiet, Sheila! Or oi'll throw you out! I once wrestled a shark and then we ate crumpets, because oi'm sort of British in a way."_ She jumped on the bed and felt something papery under it. Upon closer inspection, she realized that those were various Playboy-type magazines, tucked under the mattress.

_"Oi pretend that oi'm a professional, but in reality, I wank to these koala resembling Australian playboy models."_ She flipped through the magazine, and dropped it to the ground upon finding a disgusting picture in it.

_She fits how many of those? And in her where now?_

_"Us Aussies are basically Brits with a better dental plan." _She marched up and down the van, having the most fun she had in weeks. "_But oi'm quite British-ish in reality. In fact, oi'm so British, I shit the queen!"_ Pepper hid behind the table, holding her arms up as she were holding a rifle. _"Boom. Headshot. Jolly good show."_

She didn't mind her accent going a completely different way.

_"Kangaroos, crumpets, Saxton Hale, crumpets, blah-blah-blah, there is a sloight chance of me bein' gay… blah-blah-blah, crumpets…"_

Suddenly, Mundy burst through the door, jumping on his driver's seat. He was panting, and clutching his rifle for dear life.

"Buckle up, Sheila!"

Pepper quickly took off her hat and jumped to her seat, buckling up. The tires screeched as Mundy made a speedy escape. Gunshots were fired at them, but the van successfully avoided them. Their tires left large black marks on the road.

"What's goin' on?" Pepper asked.

"His mate saw me." He muttered, licking his lips and turning sharply to the left. Soon the shots stopped firing and they left the town limits. They both sighed with relief.

"Pepper?" he said, looking at the road.

"Yeah?" she slouched in her chair, her arm stretched over her head. The man looked at the floor as if he looked for the right words to say.

"That was… the worst Australian accent oi 'ave ever heard."

**_Day 6:_**

The best diner in the state, as Mundy called it, was now only about a 100 yards away from them. It would be crazy not to visit it, so they made another quick stop. They walked on the rough, squealing gravel while approaching the orange building. It wasn't like other diners Pepper has been to. This one was asymmetrical, an oval building with a curved rooftop. She pulled out her camera, and started filming the diner, thinking that it was some sort of architectural marvel.

"So what exactly happened yesterday?" asked Pepper, trying to make up for not having the camera on the day before.

"The watch tower wasn't a good spot. I almost got a shot at 'im, when 'is mate saw me. Before oi knew it, they were shooting at me like Aborigines would at a golden wombat." Pepper almost laughed at how incredibly Australian that sounded.

"Does that happen to you often?" she asked as he held the glass door open for her.

"More than I'd care to admit."

The inside of the diner was less than what she had expected. It was a simple tiled place, full of Wankah! advertisements and neon signs. There was a counter where no one ate; it had a red marble counter top, and it had a large metal pole on each side, connecting it to the ceiling. The interior itself wasn't much to look at, but she couldn't help but notice that all the waitresses were beautiful, voluptuous blondes, with an arse you can bounce a nickel off and get a dollar back. Mundy sat at the counter, and Pepper quietly sat next to him, trying not to impose.

"Hey, Lucy!" he called a waitress over, a tall vision with large blue eyes.

"Mundy! Good to 'ave you! What 'ill it be?" her voice was slightly squeaky. By slightly, it implied that all the glass windows shook as she talked.

"Just get me a coffee, Sheila." Pepper turned to him, already used to being called "Sheila".

"And for you?"

"Coffee. Black." She said sternly, trying to mimic the Australian. She wanted to seem as low-maintenance as possible, though in reality, she was dying to try the three cheese omelette with sweet wombat bacon on the side, topping it off with a large scoop of mint chocolate chip ice-cream. Lucy looked at Mundy with a strange, confused expression.

"Don't worry, she doesn't know." He sent her away.

"Don't know what?" Pepper asked, averting her eyes from the mouth watering cheese tray.

"Black coffee is all they serve around here. You shouldn't go around thinkin' there is another variety. Some might think you're spoiled."

Pepper clenched her fists, trying not to order the Great Geezer's Chocolate Chicken Surprise, that didn't sound appetizing, but she would've ordered it out of spite, when she heard a familiar voice.

"Peppermint?"

She turned in her chair, having Mundy completely ignoring her. Before her stood a friend; a colleague that worked in her brothel. She had short blonde hair, wore a short blue summer dress and looked fabulous. Pepper, on the other hand, had her hair splattered over her face, which was blemished and yellowish, and the only thing covering the large ketchup stain on her green shirt was an even larger ketchup stain.

"Cinnamon?" they started squealing as they saw each other, much to the discomfort of the other guests, Mundy included.

Cinnamon was one of the "more popular" girls in the brothel, and Pepper's best friend. She also went to film school with her, the only difference being that she was finishing her final year, which was paid for by her employer. Steve Morrison was such a nice man, when you get past him being a mack. Pepper actually got employed there because Cinnamon put in a good word for her. She was forever in her dept.

"So what are you's doin' 'ere in Australia?" Pepper's accent now sounded more Bostonian than ever.

"Final year, dude. See that guy oveh there?"

She pointed at the neatly dressed man, eating a donut. He lifted it up to greet Pepper, a big smile over his face.

"Yeah?"

"Four years ago, I did a repoht on him, like you're doin'. Now I came back to check on him. He moved out of his mother's basement, and now owns a small business." Cinnamon turned back to Pepper.

"He still cuts off an occasional finger off random people, but… what can you do." She shrugged. "So, who are you interviewin'?"

Pepper stepped back with Cinnamon, normally called Cindy, and pointed at the tall slim man drinking his coffee loudly. Cinnamon gasped.

"Gurl." She exclaimed. "He is like… an Australian Adonis." Her mouth fell to the side, basking in all of his unkempt sexiness.

"What are you, drunk?" Pepper had to ask.

"Did you have a go at it?" Cindy licked her lips, making Pepper blush.

"N-no…" she turned her head to the side.

"Ah, right… so you're still a…"

"Yeah." Pepper didn't want her to finish that sentence.

"Aw, come on, I think it's kind of cute. Workin' where you do, still being a…"

She was stopped by a song coming out of the radio. It was a Rolling Stones' song, which came out about two years ago. Cinnamon shrieked with joy.

"Ooooh! Remember this song? This suits you so well!"

Pepper listened to the familiar lyrics more closely.

_I'm not talking about the kind of clothes she wears __  
Look at that stupid girl  
I'm not talking about the way she combs her hair  
Look at that stupid girl_

Pepper frowned at her friend, which was now singing along to the song, holding Pepper's hand, much to the amusement of others.

"_Look at that stupid giiiirl… _Come on, Peppermint, sing!"

"I…I wouldn't…" she looked around the diner, all eyes peering at her. Even Mundy looked at her, half interested in what was going to happen next.

"Aw come on!" Cinnamon leaned over to her. "It will be a chance to impress him."

Normally, Pepper hated mixing business with pleasure, but this time, it was such a pleasurable business. She skipped on the white tiled floor to the beat, singing softly with her friend. The floor has been walked over by drunks, depressed blokes, and many people wielding their sorrows, hoping to drown them in a cup of coffee. It was about time it had some fun.

_The way she powders her nose __  
Her vanity shows and it shows  
She's the worst thing in this world  
Well, look at that stupid girl _

Cinnamon grabbed the camera and started recording Pepper, who was now dancing wildly, yet in the beat of the song. Her singing became louder. It was still quite enjoyable. Cinnamon encouraged her to get up on the counter. Pepper ignored her constant cries and continued to dance, drawing more and more attention.

_I'm not talking about the way she digs for gold __  
Look at that stupid girl  
Well, I'm talking about the way she grabs and holds  
Look at that stupid girl_

Soon the waitresses, the chefs, and the guests noticed how great she was actually doing. Some even started cheering. Mundy slipped his panama over his face, feeling embarrassed for her.

"Jump on the counter!" cried Cinnamon, bringing the camera up. Two men then grabbed Pepper by the hips and hoisted her up to the marble stand. She blushed, but continued to sing. The men came swarming from each side, whistling at her. Pepper jokingly pointed at Cindy whenever the "stupid girl" part came up. Cinnamon continued recording, but rolled her eyes each time. Pepper then grabbed the metal rods connecting the counter to the ceiling. In the heat of the moment, she spun around it, which made the others clap and cheer louder. The waitress turned the music up, and laughed as some men stared at her, captivated by her gyrating hips. About twenty men looked at this redhead, her hair completely flat, and her clothes looking like they have been chewed up by someone. And yet, they considered her sexy.

"Do another spin!" shouted Cindy. Pepper did as she was told, wrapping her leg around the pole, and making a quick spin. Her voice was extremely melodic, and she smiled as she sung.

_The way she talks about someone else __  
That she don't even know herself  
She's the sickest thing in this world  
Well, look at that stupid girl _

"Americans." Mundy commented, finishing his coffee. He still casually looked at the girl he was in charge of, putting on a show for the entire bloody diner.

He laughed for some reason.

When the song ended, she jumped off the counter, listening to the applause. The men then returned to their seats, and Pepper ran to Cinnamon.

"Yo, that shit was awesome! I told you's! I told you's you gawt it!" she said, handing her the camera.

"Thanks." Pepper blushed. "I think we should be going now…" she looked at Mundy, leaving his coffee and heading towards the door.

"Awww. But you 'aven't even finished your cawffee." Cindy pouted her lips. "Does he… I mean, do you really have to go?"

Mundy and Peppermint walked back to the van in unusual silence.

"That was, um…" Mundy started.

"Let's make a deal; if you don't tawk about this, I won't tawk about you getting caught "more than you'd care to admit". Deal?" she looked at him carefully. He went quiet for a second, considering her offer.

"Deal."


	10. Driving Miss Crazy Part 2 of 3

**Day_ 7:_**

"Oi still don't get 'ow anyone could like American beers, Sheila."

"I know, right? Anyone who does is dumber than a bucket of hair. But, um, try and keep your eyes on the road, OK?"

Day seven. What started as a normal interview continuation turned into a discussion on American beers. Neither of them seemed to recall how.

"OK, Mundy, I got one;" Pepper cleared her throat and looked at some buildings they were passing by. "American beer is weak, pissy-tasting beer. British beer is strong pissy-tasting beer. And Australian beer is strong beery-tasting piss."

Pepper chuckled at that little joke of hers, though Mundy wasn't that impressed.

"Oi've got a better one. Wonna hear?

Pepper nodded, wondering what a joke sounds like when told by a hardened assassin.

"Olroight, stop me if you heard this one;" Mundy didn't look at her, but kept his eyes fixed up on the road. He cleared his throat.

"American beer is…like making love in a canoe."

"Making love in a canoe? Why's that?"

"It's fucking close to water."

Mundy looked straight at Pepper for the first time today, expecting her reaction. She, however, gave none. She picked at some skin under her fingernail. Her nail polish was cracked in the middle of each nail.

"Wot now, Sheila?"

"I'm not a big fan of puns." She shrugged. This made Mundy irritated.

"Well, at least you couldn't see mine a mile away!" he coughed and steered the wheel to the highroad. The van bumped on the road when they drove across a badly paved street. As a professional, nothing really seemed to bother him. Yet one joke taken badly from this girl, and he was about to blow. To calm himself down, he looked at the clear road. It was shining with a strange, beautiful golden glow. The sky was clear and azure, as it has always been here. He passed a couple of advertisements, exhibiting the new department of moustache sciences opening in another small town. He always loved living life on an open road; only a rifle by his side. He took a deep breath and whacked the bobble head for good measure. It shook vigorously. Mundy looked back at Pepper. She was now biting her fingernail, deep in thought. She was looking at her camera, still running but only capturing silence.

"Sheila? Can oi ask you something?" he asked at last.

"What?" Pepper turned to him, pointing the camera at him excitedly.

"It's about yesterday…"

"Let me stop you right there, koala brain." She snapped, looking straight into his deep brown eyes. Of course, she could only guess that they were brown behind those big sunglasses of his. "I told you, you talk about yesterday, and I talk about you sucking at hide-and-shoot."

Mundy shrugged.

"Oi just wanted to compliment your singing voice and ask you how you learned to sing so well, but…" he looked to the side, feeling Pepper's surprised look burning the back of his head. "If ye don't wanna talk about it…"

Pepper wasn't always the show off she was now. While she was in Texas, she was a modest, lovely girl. But even then, she wouldn't resist fishing out a compliment.

"Ooooh! I wanna tawk! I wanna tawk!" she said in her Bostonian Texan accent, kneeling on the chair and excitedly leaning towards the man, looking like an excited child.

"Okay then." He shrugged. "Where did you learn to sing so well?"

"Easy. The brothel. Tell me more about how good I sound!" she zoomed into his face, trying to capture every moment of his praise.

"They let you sing there?"

"They let **me** sing there. I'm the freakin' entertainment, sugar."

"Entertainment?" asked the marksman after he was taken aback with being called "sugar".

"Yeah. I get in, I sing, I spin around on a pole, or on a chair or something…" Pepper moved the camera away, realizing that she wasn't going to get more compliments. "Sometimes I just drink some scotch. And I sing. Aaaaand, that's pretty much it."

Mundy seemed slightly dazed. "**That's **what you do?" he looked at her, surprised. "I always thought you were a…"

"A concubine?" she batted her long eyelashes, making him feel slightly guilty. The girl knew how to manipulate someone, and she probably did so frequently.

"So you're really tellin' me that the brothel is just a venue?"

"Yeah. I mean, it ain't exactly a bar, or a hotel lobby, but…"

"And Cinnabun…?"

"Cinnamon." she corrected him. Then she tossed her hand back, cackling. "No, no, no, she's a hooker, 100 percent." She leaned to him mischievously. "Don't tell her parents, though. They think she's in a convent."

"Well…" Mundy returned to looking at the glowing road, now becoming red as the sun began to set.

"You surprise me, Sheila. More and more every day. Next thing you're going to tell me is that you're… a virgin, or something."

Pepper didn't say anything.

Suddenly, the van came to a screeching halt, the bobble head fell on its back, and Pepper almost fell on the command board. The engine howled in protest, but soon stopped. Mundy was looking straight at the frightened girl, clutching her camera close to her chest. He took off his glasses, confirming Pepper's doubts that his eyes were not only brown, but a deep dark chocolate brown, the kind you can stare at for days, mesmerized by them.

"Are you honestly telling me that you're a virgin?" his voice was slightly skeptical, and it made Pepper blush.

"Well… I'm not a virgin… completely…"

"Wot do you mean, "completely"?" he leaned back into his chair.

"Well, I've had boyfriends…I… made-out with them and so…" her face turned beet red for some reason. Mundy's laughing didn't help at all.

"Oh, olroight then. In that case, you ain't a virgin. Hey! I flew in an airplane once! Maybe now I can fly!"

"Okay, okay, it's not the same as…" Pepper blushed.

"Oh, no, no. It's completely the same! Hey! Oi 'aven't died yet! Maybe oi'm immortal!"

"Point taken."

Mundy was now leaning in his chair, not caring that his van was in the middle of the road.

"Oh look, oi drank orange juice! Maybe now oi'm an orange! Oi saw the Queen once! Maybe oi'm the next heir to the bloody throne!"

"Shut up!" Pepper clenched her fists. "What do you care, anyway?"

Mundy looked at her, huffing with anger.

"Oi don't care, oi'm just surprised. Oi mean… you work in a brothel, so that raised some doubts… And besides… look at yourself!" he made a vague hand gesture, pointing at her. Pepper smiled at him.

"R-really?" Mundy noticed her smile and promptly started the engine, looking away from her.

"That wasn't a compliment. Oi'm merely implying that you dress loike a whore."

"Screw you." Pepper said as they were driving away. She turned off the camera, looking at her reflection in the dusty window; she wore an oversized shirt and grey jeans.

_That was a compliment and you know it, sugar._

**_Day 8:_**

Pepper and Mundy were sitting in a rest stop close to Melbourne. They were sitting on a terrace, drinking small cups of coffee from the small café near the gas station. Gas station coffees were the thing; drink one sip and you're not sleeping tonight at all. Drink the whole cup and you won't blink for a lifetime.

Pepper's hair was dripping wet, since she just came out of the shower and only got dressed before she decided to indulge herself in strong Turkish liquid delight.

"You shower too often, Sheila." Mundy said.

"Well, excuse me if I like to bathe every week." was her response, rubbing her hair with a small towel she brought. This was the first time she ever dried her hair in a public place. She smiled at that thought and started filming the rest stop. It looked incredibly nice, the big luscious bushes surrounding it. A couple of birds chirped on the red rooftop, before they flew off to one of the four large pines. There was sand on this rest stop, and the smell reminded Pepper of the beach she and her family went to every July. She couldn't come with them this year, but her sister Sarah sent her a postcard along with her letter. She loved those letters of hers. It made her feel connected to her family even though she was miles away from them. She wondered if Mundy had a family to go back to, when he's done with his little killing spree.

Mundy seemed deep in thought today. Some people called him and offered him a job at some company. He refused, because he always preferred working alone, not bound by anyone. The problem was that these people continued to call him, the last phone call being particularly strange. They mentioned "dire circumstances" and a large amount of money. Mundy thought it was a scam, but still, he wondered.

He looked at Pepper, struggling to finish her cyanide-tasting coffee. He felt slightly guilty for calling her a whore the first day he met her. It was strange, they knew each other for a week, yet didn't know anything about each other.

"Why did your folks name you Pepper, Sheila?" he asked, much to Pepper's surprise.

"You… you're asking **me**?"

The marksman frowned. The young girl rubbed her face, trying to concentrate.

"Um, okay then… how do I start… ummm… You know what recessive genes are, right?"

Mundy nodded, already knowing that this tale of hers won't exactly be riveting.

"Well, none of my neighbors did. You see, everyone in my family is a typical blondie, ya know? Blonde hair, blue eyes… Though my grandmas are both of Irish descent. But they dyed their hair, so no one would notice, right?"

She looked away, looking at the small sand particles caught between her moist toes. She dug her feet deeper in them. Mundy stared at his empty coffee cup, wanting her to get on with the story.

"So anyway, I was born. First day, and I already had this big, frizzy red hair. My folks are both blonde, ya know? But they knew why I wasn't. Their neighbors and friends, however…" she huffed, leaning on her chair.

"Soon, they started talkin' these rumors, right? That my mom cheated on dad and stuff? But she didn't, she never would! And all those people just wanted to gossip just because they have nothing important to say." She was getting angry. She stomped her foot in the thick sand.

"Rumors don't know much about genetics, as it turned out." She shook her head. Mundy looked up at her. What she was saying was so strangely passionate. He leaned his head against his hand, letting out a discouraging sigh. It was a reflex he had whenever he listened to someone talk for more than two minutes. Pepper didn't seem to notice it.

"So, anyway, mom was desperate. She even dyed my hair blonde until I was a year old. So, anyway, I was one month old, and still had no name." Pepper suddenly looked at the sky, talking to someone else. Maybe she tried to talk to her parents back home, or maybe she found it easier to concentrate.

"One day my dad found something in the yard. It was a pepper plant. Nobody planted it, nobody intended on planting it. It just stood there, in the middle of the damn yard. Just this one little plant that didn't belong there, but made everything so much more elegant… so much more exotic. My dad liked that plant. I don't know if it's true, but according to dad, it made the best pepper." She chuckled, leaning slightly forward.

"So then my dad gets this amazing idea of naming me after it. My mom was devastated. She begged him to reconsider, and give me a name like Sarah or Mary-Sue, or Doreen, or…" she looked at the table, disgusted. "Or Ellery."

Mundy laughed at the thought that this girl sitting before him could have been named Ellery.

"Luckily, my dad was more persuasive. And so, I continued to grow in the Bee Cave of a yard. Just me, a single Pepper… and I made everything better and more different for all the Ellerys out there." She concluded and leaned over her chair.

"So, in conclusion, I'm named Pepper because I'm a special unique creature." She smiled smugly. Mundy looked up at her.

"That's a cute story, Sheila."

He remained quiet for one brief moment.

"Victor…"

"I'm sorry, what?" asked the special unique creature almost called Ellery or Mary-Sue.

"Oi said that moi name is Victor, Sheila. Since I know about your name, it's only fair that you know mine."

Pepper chuckled.

"Cool! I heard Victor means "the one who conquers" in Latin."

_I'm glad Cinnamon isn't here. I can imagine her now; "Victor, the one who conquers my heart."_

"That's a pretty badass name if you think about it. Why'd your parents give it to ya?"

Victor shrugged.

"Probably because they bloody felt like it."

**_Day 9:_**

"So why did you call yourself Peppermint, then?"

Pepper cleaned the lens of her camera with a small handkerchief. She kept looking at her nails, wondering if this hired assassin and wildlife hunter had any acetone. It wouldn't be the weirdest thing she would have found here. This man had weapons, various magazines, some more…educational than the others, and on top of that, had an interesting habit of collecting his victim's teeth. Pepper tossed the hankerchief in her lap and looked at Victor Mundy, eagerly waiting for her response.

Eagerly being the term used loosely, of course.

"Well, all the otha girls in the brothel had edible names. Like Cinnamon, Cookie, Strawberry, Chicken Strip…"

"What was that?" Victor looked at her in slight surprise.

"Strawberry. Any way…" she sat up straight in her seat; "if you actually go to a brothel, and you actually bother to stick around to see the show, would you rather listen to Peppermint, or Pepper Conagher?"

"Honestly?" he put his left right hand on the steering wheel; "I would rather see Pepper."

"Yeah, well… not everyone is like that." She casually turned on the camera. "I'm trying to protect my parents, more than anything."

"Oh really, how so?" he looked at some cacti that looked like people waving at them. They were back in the desert, the ideal place to commit a homicide and not get caught. Strangely enough, most Australium dealers were in the desert, because they can deal all they want and never get caught. Of course, if Mundy is in question, never say never.

He knew that the man he was looking for wasn't going to come here until tomorrow, but this will give him the time to explore the area and find a decent camping spot. He told Pepper to keep her eyes peeled too, even showing her the picture of the man. She commented something about him looking like some guy from _Herman's Hermits, _bit her lip and quietly moaned.

_"No, we can't "let him off the hook" because "he's dreamy", Sheila."_

"How so?" Pepper suddenly interrupted Mundy in his train of thought. "If you worked in a brothel in any way, shape or form, would you tell them? I mean, Peppermint could be anybody, but there is only one Pepper Conagher. So, what if word came around was singin' in a stuffy room full of rich, horny guys? They would disown me! Not to mention I'd bring shame to my family."

"If you feel like that, why were you employed there in the first place?"

Pepper looked at her lap, some sorrow in her eyes.

"I… I needed the money, ya know? And it seemed okay enough. I just sung, danced around a bit… but my parents wouldn't approve, either way."

"Of course you needed the money, they always do." He rolled his eyes, a slightly silly movement he picked up from Pepper. He squinted, trying to control the unwanted eye reflex. "And 'ow do you know they won't approve? You work hard, you have a lovely voice… you're a virgin for God's sake! What's not to approve of?"

Pepper turned her head and gazed into the distance.

"They're pretty mad about me leaving Texas and going to Boston. The thing is, many teens go somewhere else, where I come from, and only a few come back. I understand why… I mean, family is family, but the feeling of freedom is… indescribable."

Victor listened to Pepper closely. He had the same feeling when he was a kid.

"I know what you mean, Sheila. I grew up in a small farm in Adelaide. Adelaide Street, the red house on the left." He said, as if Pepper knew all the streets by heart. She smiled at him, zooming in the camera.

"We lived a peaceful loife there, a small farm, many pets… it was almost too peaceful. Oi found it to be quite boring after a while, so oi went hunting. Mum never really approved of me goin' off, hunting and so. But oi loiked it. So I continued to go. When oi was 18, loike you, oi went on me first month long hunting trip. When oi finally got home, me mum practically smacked me, told me never to do that again." He cackled at the thought.

"And oi didn't… until about six months later. The hunting trips became longer, the prey more satisfyin'. You're roight, Sheila. There's no place loike home…" he looked at the camera, held by this strange being that made him talk to another person for more than five minutes, for the first time in months.

"But then again, who wants to be home all the toime?"

Pepper nodded.

"I guess we both have it tough then, huh, Mundy?"

"You have it tough? Hardly." he sneered.

"No, seriously." She moved the camera away from him for a second. "Everything I do would be frowned upon from where I come from. My folks are great, but… they wouldn't let me listen to the Stones, they wouldn't let me dress the way I do, they wouldn't let me write…"

"Hold on. You write, Sheila?"

The girl reached deep into a small bag. She pulled out a dozen sheets of paper. Mundy couldn't see what they said, but he recognized verses, written in cursive with a green pen.

"I write song lyrics. About things that happen, you know? Not that anyone's going to read them…" she shoved the papers back into the bag.

"I never knew someone actually bothered with those silly things. Not unless they had to, of course." Mundy shook his head. Pepper looked at him with slight sadness in her eyes.

"Now you sound like my dad." They both bowed their heads down, sitting in awkward silence.

"Your dad… seems strict."

"He's actually a very good dad. He's pretty low-maintenance, but…" she placed her little round head against the dusty window, sighing loudly.

"The man has 11 PhDs. And he wanted me to take on the tradition and go to California to study hard science, like him and his grandpa." She looked at Mundy, with a slight wry smile.

"Guess how that turned out?"

"So what you're saying is that… you're a disappointment?"

Pepper looked at Victor Mundy, innocently flicking his bobble head. She stared at him, white hot anger streaming out of her eyes.

"We're back to that? Are you seriously back to that?"

He ignored her, but she seemed angrier.

"You don't call someone a disappointment! You never do!" she stood up and clenched her fists, practically yelling, her voice piercing his ears like a harpoon.

"Listen here, you schmuck!" she cursed at him, with a seemingly innocent word she picked up from Cinnamon; "I am not a freakin' disappointment, okay?"

Mundy continued to flick his bobble head.

"My folks don't even know what I do! How am I a disappointment then? You…you think you're all high and mighty, being an assassin and all?! Do your parents know about that?"

Mundy kept quiet while Pepper was breathing heavily.

"They don't, do they? They don't. Well at least I don't go around killing people! I am not a freakin' disappointment! You are the freaking disappointment, Mundy!"

Suddenly, the van stopped with incredible force, making Pepper fall to the ground. She was about to say something, when she saw Mundy, his hands gripping the wheel tightly and his nostrils flaring.

"Get…out." He managed through his grinding teeth.

"W-what?"

"Get out of the bloody van, Sheila." He said, his voice was jittery, even though he tried to control in. "Get your camera, and piss off."

"Oh, come on, Mundy…" she stood up, picking her camera up, recording everything.

"Nobody calls me a bloody disappointment! Now get out of me bloody van!"

"Mundy, don't be like…"

"Did oi stutter?! Piss off!"

"Can I just…?" she pointed at her suitcase.

"Now!" he cried, making Pepper run in terror. She stepped on the hot sand near the road. Mundy marched after her and slammed the door shut just in front of her face. Pepper flinched as the whiteness of the door buzzed in front of her eyes.

"And stay out!" he screamed from the inside. Pepper looked at the van with tears in her eyes, remembering about his warning a few days back.

"Oi swear to God, if you screw this up, Sheila, I will personally toss you out on the street. Got it? You fuck this up, and you're walking to Boston!"

She sniffed quietly as the van drove into the never ending road, leaving Pepper completely alone. She had this coming. Now she was all alone in the middle of nowhere, only her camera by her side. It was still running.

"Well, world, this is it." She looked worriedly around herself. "If I die out here, blame my film professor."

With that, she turned off the camera.

Pepper wasn't a stupid girl. He knew that if she walked into the desert, she would be a goner for sure. She walked along the road, the setting sun blinding her. She reached out her thumb, hoping that maybe, someone would pass by. She crept along the road in a steady pace, putting her thumb out. Her camera was heavy, and she constantly had to adjust it, so it wouldn't fall off. She didn't let herself cry, knowing that she had this coming.

She has been walking for twenty minutes, her eyes were red with sand and tears kept in, her martens were filled with sand, and seemed to cut off her legs with every step. She wasn't thirsty, but she was tired, tired enough to lay on the road forever. A thousand worries ran through her head, one nastier than the other. Mundy was right to call her a disappointment. If she died out here, would her family care? Would they try to hush it up, to keep the neighbors from talking? Her stomach rumbled from such a thought. She sighed and continued to drag her feet across the burning pavement.

Suddenly, she saw something approaching. It was a camper van. She reached her thumb out, not caring that it went in a different direction from where she wanted to go. But the closer it came, to lower her thumb went, and by the time the camper van was standing in front of her, her hand was limp and hanging idly by her side. She averted her head.

The van made a sudden U-turn, leaning to the left. Pepper closed her eyes at the horrible noise, but continued to look away. The dusty window rolled down, and a man with a panama stuck his head out.

"Alroight, Sheila, you can come back in."

"Why would I? You shooed me out?"

The man scoffed. "Would I honestly leave you out here to starve? Please, Sheila. Professionals have standards."

No matter how hard Pepper wanted to protest, she had to get back inside. She opened the door and collapsed on the seat, coughing out some of the dust. The sun was now completely red, and it shined at her face, making her close her eyes.

"Oi hope you learned your lesson, Sheila." He said, seemingly calm, and began to drive again.

The poor girl nodded, clutching a bruise she got when she fell in the van. They drove for about two minutes before Pepper got the courage to apologize.

"I'm sorry I've been a nosy bitch." She bowed her head down.

"Oi'm sorry oi'm a sexy rogue that doesn't ever miss and looks damn good wearin' a hat."

Pepper looked at him, confused, but he soon explained:

"You don't apologize for something that you are, Sheila. You apologize for something that you do."

That being said, Pepper started playing with her fingers quietly, her stomach acting up again. Suddenly, Mundy mumbled something under his breath.

"Oi'm sorry oi over-reacted." He said quickly. Pepper looked at him in bemusement before running over to him, squeezing him tightly. She made him lose his balance, and the van swiveled on the road.

"I knew it!" she pressed her face against his.

"Wot the bloody hell, Sheila?" he protested.

"Oh shut up, Mundy! I knew you cared about me! I knew it." She said, ignoring his stubble digging deep into her soft cheek.

Oddly enough, Mundy didn't protest at that.

**_Day 10:_**

Not having anything to film today, Pepper basked in the sound of being contained in a moving cubicle with a quiet socially awkward Australian. The first thing she did was eat a ham sandwich she made. Then she tapped the soles of her feet against the floor a bit. She looked around the metal construction of the van. It was relatively dark inside, even though the sun was shining brightly, as always. She groaned and began fingering a small white ashtray near the bobble head. It had one cigarette butt in it, the grey ashes smeared over the white porcelain surface. The funny thing was that she never saw Mundy smoke before.

"Piss." Mundy commented as he missed a turn. Normally, he knew every road and shortcut by heart, but today it angered him that the man he was looking for was nowhere to be found. He circled the area a couple of times, cursing his employer for not giving him an exact spot. He got another call from the company that wanted to hire him. He politely told them off, telling them that he wasn't interested in their offer. He hated them for being persistent and considering him a sell-out.

Pepper was bored out of her mind, and knew that she was not going to get a word from Mundy today. With a swift grab, she took a sheet of paper in her hand and began writing on it with a green pen. She always loved the color green. The heavy metal scent around the van seemed to have lifted when Pepper rolled down the window. Inspired by the crisp, fresh air, she began to write on it, the pen dancing on the paper.

"Wot's that, then?" asked Mundy politely, after Pepper dabbled on the paper for over ten minutes.

"Just thinking of a new song that popped into mind." She squinted at her text. "I've been told that I'm quite good at writing these."

"Told by who?" asked Mundy.

"Well, there is this guy…" she started. Mundy sighed and tossed his head back.

"Of course there's a guy. There's always a guy."

"No, no. It's not like that." Said Pepper defensively. "He's just a friend. He works with my dad. About a year older than me, but I don't think he hit puberty yet." she giggled.

"Wot's his name?"

"Mikey. He has been obsessed with me since fifth grade. One time he proposed to me by putting an onion ring on my finger. See this?" she pointed at her right ring finger, the base of it was lightly red and chafed.

"This is because he didn't let me take the retarded thing off for over two hours." she rubbed her finger tenderly. "Sometimes, I still smell the oily onion on it."

"So this Mikey… he's just a friend?" asked Mundy with a slight unnoticeable gleam of hope in his eye.

"I wouldn't say that. I try and avoid him as much as I can, yet he seems obsessed with me.

"You're a cruel one, Sheila." Victor noticed. He looked back at the sheet of paper. "So wot are you workin' on?"

"Just this one ballad of sort…"

"Can I 'ear it?"

Pepper shrugged, blushing slightly.

"Fine then… but it's not my fault if you hate it."

Mundy nodded at her encouragingly. Pepper cleared her throat, as she did before any performance.

_I have climbed the highest mountain.  
I have run through the fields  
Only to be with you…  
Only to be with you…_

Pepper blushed, but was relieved when she saw Mundy bobbing his head to the side, listening carefully to her.

_I have run,  
I have crawled.  
I have scaled these city walls.  
These city walls.  
Only to be with you…_

She sung softly, melodically. She had the sweetest voice Mundy had ever heard. He was more than disappointed when she stopped singing.

"That's all I've got." She shrugged.

"Not bad…" Victor tried to act unimpressed.

"I still haven't found what I'm looking for…"

"Pardon?"

"I still don't know what to do with the chorus. I'm losing my touch. I shouldn't even be writing this." She sighed, crumpling the piece of paper between her fingers, and dropping it in her bag. Mundy looked at the paper ball falling deep into her dark shoulder bag, almost wanting to reach out and grab it.

"Well, Sheila, honestly…" he looked at her slowly. "I thought it was beautiful."

Pepper smiled. And suddenly, something happened. The temperature in the van rose for about ten degrees, and a golden glow filled the drab vehicle. A thousand angels sung, and pretty pink unicorns flew around her face. It was magical. If the heavens came down to the Earth, they still wouldn't be as magnificent as this. Pepper opened her mouth and narrowed her sparkling eyes, almost blinded by shock/surprise/stupid euphoria.

"Mundy… are you… are you _smiling_?"

"No!" he defensively looked back on the road, frowning again. The van became freezing cold, the darkness returned, the angels' voices became croaked and the unicorns flew out of the window, possibly to rob a liquor store. Still, Pepper's eyes still sparkled, and they were looking straight at this beautiful man.

"You smiled, knucklehead." She turned away; "You smiled, _sugar_."

**_Day 13:_**

Pepper was sitting in the van, working on yet another poem. Mundy was out for over five hours now, and she was starting to get the picture of why he was alone for so long. Nobody could endure the waiting. During the past few days, while he was hunting for the elusive dealer in this desert, she managed to get out one piece of information from him. She asked him about his love life yesterday.

"Caroline." was his only response.

"What is she? Your girlfriend? Wife?"

"Former girlfriend. She, uh… she was also a hunter. Not an assassin, though."

"What happened to her?" Pepper thought of all the possible scenarios, all including her tragic death, which would explain why Mundy was so edgy all the time.

"She simply got bored. One day, she just got out of the van and got into some guy's limousine. She said she couldn't live off love and prey, and that the world revolved around money.

"The bitch." Commented Pepper, making Mundy laugh.

"She… she called me a disappointment, too. Just before she left."

Pepper gave him a small reassuring smile before turning off the camera. The marksman grabbed her shoulders before taking his sniper rifle.

"People change, Sheila. People change eventually, and when they do, they stay like that forever." He walked out of the van. Pepper climbed up on her seat, looking at him;

"Why do you think that is, Mundy?"

"The feelin's they 'ave. Those feelin's make blokes bludgeon their wives to death with their 22 carat golf trophy."

Pepper opened her mouth.

"Is that what happened to…?"

The marksman shrugged, slowly closing the door behind him.

"I warned her about 'im. But she didn't want to listen to a "disappointment" like myself."

He then walked out of the van, went to his camping spot, and stayed there for five hours before he finally returned. Pepper was inspired to write a song about Caroline, imagining her as the tall, tan, gold digging blondie. Mundy was gone for five hours today, too. Pepper still wrote her song, which she hid as soon as she heard him enter.

_Now I ain't sayin' she's a gold digger,  
But she ain't messing with no broke…_

She quickly crumpled the paper as Mundy walked in, a rifle on his bag and three full jars of urine in his hand. No teeth in a plastic bag.

"No luck, huh?"

"I 'ave a feeling someone got 'im before me." He huffed. Pepper suddenly got a disturbing image of the first corpse she saw. She shuddered. It has been a while, but she still had occasional dreams about that day. And she remembered it every time she heard _"Satisfaction" _on the radio.

"Now what?" she asked, propping herself up on the seat. Mundy looked at the starry night. Some crickets chirped in the distance.

"We'll camp out 'ere. It's too dangerous to drive at night."

"Says an assassin." smirked Pepper. "So what do we do now?"

Mundy put his sniper rifle away neatly on its rack.

"**We** don't do anything. **Oi'm** gonna get some sleep." And with that he walked up to the red couch, collapsing on it and promptly falling asleep. Pepper couldn't sleep yet, so she squinted at the paper, trying to write a song that suits Caroline better. She licked the tip of her green pen, pressing it on the clear white surface.

_And it's about time that you know,  
That not all that glitters is gold.  
You could have lived a happy life, maybe  
But sadly, gold was the death of you, baby…_

Pepper yawned and looked at Mundy. He lay on his stomach, his head facing the wall, snoring. She smiled, thinking about how calm he looked. Feeling sleepy, but still eager to finish the song, she opened the window to let in some invigorating fresh air. She looked at the full moon raised high up in the sky. A couple of wolves howled in unison, but Pepper didn't find it scary, but merely hypnotic. She leaned in the chair, rubbing her eyes. She gazed upon the small shrubberies, dried up from the sun. All of a sudden, she heard a crackling sound.

She sat up and stopped breathing, trying to hear it better. The crackling didn't stop, and she could see a slim silhouette running across the field. Whoever the man was, he was in a hurry. For one brief moment, a small speck of moonlight illuminated his face. Pepper almost shrieked. This was the man Mundy was looking for. This was the ridiculously handsome Australium dealer. The man ran up to a telephone booth roughly a few yards away. Mundy called his parents from that booth. The man they were looking for was now standing at point blank range. Pepper went completely silent. The man could see the van clearly, but figured that it was abandoned. And the darkness made Pepper's silhouette difficult to see.

Pepper should've woken up Mundy. But then she would risk alerting the man of their presence. Yet there the man stood, carefully dialing a number, briefcase in one hand. The shot was perfect, even Pepper knew that. And if they missed this opportunity…

Pepper aimed the camera towards the open window, trying not to make a sound. She wasn't sure what would happen, but she was probably supposed to film it. Meanwhile, the man hung up and dialed the number again, giving Pepper more time to think this through. A wild idea popped into her head when she saw Mundy's rifle hanging on the wall.

_You can do this, Pepper. Daddy always used to take you to hunting trips when you were younger. Just remember, shoot in the eye._

She carefully took the rifle off the wall.

_Remember, if this man didn't deserve to die, he wouldn't be on the list. Do not consider this man human. Think of the people he killed. An eye for an eye, remember that._

She pointed the rifle at the man, oblivious to what was happening near him. Pepper looked through the scope, and aimed at his eye, focused on dialing the payphone, not looking at anything else.

_I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. I'm a pacifist. I never liked killing all those little animals, anyway. I can't do this. I can't do this…_

Her hands shook, and her throat closed up. If she missed, Mundy would think of her as a disappointment. It was a clear shot. The man opened his mouth to speak to the person on the other end.

_You're Texan, of course you can do this, dang it!_

Mundy was woken up by a gunshot, followed by Pepper's screaming and crying. He rushed over to see her, leaning out the window, holding his rifle. She barely managed to explain what happened. As soon as she did, Mundy ran out of the car, the file in his hand. Pepper was next to him, barely standing on her feet.

"Yep. That's him. You've done well, Sheila. Sheila?"

The girl was crying, tears running down her eyes. Without saying a word, she crossed off the man's name with a green pen.

"It was quite a good shot, Sheila. Ever considered doing this professionally?"

Pepper whimpered, slowly making her way back to the van. Mundy shrugged and began pulling the man's teeth as a memorabilia.

"Not so handsome now, are ya, you cunt?"

About twenty minutes later, Mundy was back on the sofa again, trying to sleep. He heard quiet whimpering. Pepper stood in front of him, clutching her shoulders.

"How do you do this?" she asked quietly, almost a whisper.

"It gets easier with time, Sheila. You got it on camera?"

Pepper nodded.

"Good girl." he groaned and moved closer to the wall, making some room for her.

"Oi'd hate it if you stood loike that all night. Hop in." he smacked the soft red surface with his hand. Pepper managed to smile, laying with him for the first time.

His strong, lean arms went around her, comforting her. They squeezed her shaking body tightly, bringing her closer to him. He fell asleep, but she remained awake. She could feel his soft, warm breath on her tender neck, and his stubble on her face. She ran her hand over his bicep, the feel of his skin against hers calmed her, somehow. No matter what happens, this man will be there for her. This arrogant, wicked, irresistible man will always be there to hold her close if something goes wrong. She smiled, feeling his heartbeat slowing down more and more.

She didn't sleep a blink that night, yet felt calm and completely relaxed when his reassuring smile was the first thing she saw that day.

**_Day 16:_**

It was a hot late summer day. Mundy didn't have anything in mind, nothing to hunt, no one to kill. Yesterday the two of them went on a hunting trip, catching a couple of jack rabbits, some birds Pepper didn't know much about, and a strange antelope-looking creature that they roasted on an open fire. Pepper started to enjoy Australia more than she thought she would, slowly getting used to killing being a part of Victor's everyday life. Two days after she killed the man, she couldn't sleep and was constantly haunted by nightmares. So, again, Mundy volunteered to give up half of his couch, so she could get some sleep. On the third day, she managed to comprehend that the man was a public enemy, and had to be terminated. That made her feel better, somehow. But she still slept with Mundy, not being able to get enough of him.

That day was a lazy one. They set up camp for the day on a large field. The only thing they set up outside were two chairs. Mundy was rummaging through a closet in his camper van, while Pepper lay outside, looking at her clear nails. Turns out, the brutal assassin actually had some acetone. He kept it on the top shelf, along with some more "educational reading material" and a pair of handcuffs.

_Kinky little son of a bitch, aren't you?_

She lifted up her freshly shaved legs, admiring the glow they had. For the first time in two weeks, she looked good. Her hair turned slightly lighter, and she managed to get a tan over her burnt skin. She gave up her miniskirts and corsets for plain T-shirts and shorts. Best decision of her life. She had this overall natural glow, and she loved it. Yesterday, she found herself looking at her reflection in the mirror, checking herself out for over ten minutes. She truly, truly loved Australia.

At that moment, Mundy came out, holding something in his hand that resembled a necklace. Pepper lifted her sunglasses, trying to get a closer look at it.

"What's that?" she pointed at it.

"Now these…" he lifted the necklace up. "These are teeth of an elusive white crocodile found in a wetland north of Sydney. The croc gave me a hard time…took me a week to locate 'im."

Pepper was about to comment on how impressive his dedication was, when she noticed one strange thing about Victor.

_The guy's not wearing a shirt._

"Anyway, I figured that these beaut's look better together than in a box in my closet." He said, presenting the three sharp ivory teeth held together by a thin egg shell colored piece of string. Each tooth had a small metal tip on top of it. Pepper wasn't looking at the teeth, though.

"Fascinating…" she said, looking at him.

_I can fry a freakin' egg on that stomach of his…_

"Roight. It was a bit of a pain to make. Took me about two hours…"

"Mhmmm…" Pepper mumbled.

_I just wanna grab two drum sticks and do a drum solo on those babies._

"But today, oi figured… Are you alroight, Sheila? Something wrong?"

"Nothing!" she looked at his face. "**Abs**olutely nothing." She bit her tongue after making the dreaded pun.

"Anyway…" he continued; "Oi figured these would look better on you than they would on me."

Pepper blinked at him once. "You…you want me to wear it?"

Victor nodded. "May oi?"

Pepper sat on her chair, moving her wavy hair out of the way. Victor kneeled behind her, putting the thread on her smooth, silky neck. He tied it with his nimble fingers before he ran them down her back. He continued to kneel when she began to turn to him. Pepper fingered the smooth surface of the tooth. It was surprisingly cold.

"How do I look?" she asked, looking at the man.

"You look… enchanting." he managed to say at last. Pepper blushed.

"Thanks, Mundy."

Suddenly, Mundy cupped her head in his hands. He brought her head closer to him. Pepper waited for this moment for what seemed like an eternity. She ran her fingers through his long, smooth hair. She closed her eyes to bask in the upcoming glory. She puckered up, leaning forward, feeling every cell in her body burning. And then…

Nothing.

Pepper managed to open her eyes, only to see Mundy, still cupping her head, with a sorrowful look, his eyes sunk and his mouth frowned slightly.

"I can't…"

He moved away from her.

"I can't, Sheila." He stood up, looking at Pepper who clutched her new necklace.

"You're a great kid, Sheila. But you are still just a kid."

And with that, he walked away. Pepper looked at his bare back as he walked to the van. She hugged her knees. She has never felt so rejected in all of her life.

"Damn it!" she kicked her feet upwards, twitching her body in a series of angry spasms, before she lay on her side, biting her thumb in shame.

She could've killed Mundy just then. It wouldn't have been the first time she killed a man. She clutched her head, groaning in agony. She has been here for 16 days, and already she was irrefutably, hopelessly smitten with a man old enough to be her father.


	11. Driving Miss Crazy Part 3 of 3

**Author's note: Hello my readers! Welcome to the laziest, stupidest chapter imaginable. I'm not responsible if it gives you cancer. Viewer discretion is advised.**

* * *

**Day_ 18:_**

Pepper was filming the inside of Mundy's camper van. Again. He needed to go terminate the third man on his infamous list, the one who caught him a while ago, while he was camping in the clock tower. This time he tried again, driving to another town. Mundy didn't talk to her at all since yesterday. And the more time she spent alone, the guiltier she felt. It wasn't her fault, anyway. She wasn't the one that tried to suck his face. She didn't even insinuate it…did she?

The thing that most bothered her was that he called her a kid. She was in no way a kid, not since she came down here. Sure, she wasn't completely mature all the time… the thought of her grabbing Mundy's leg when she wanted to come to the stake-out with him popped into mind, looking like a terrifying flashback. But after that she was about as mature as he was. He threw her out in the desert for God's sake! Even if it was for twenty minutes, it was still a childishly stupid thing to do.

_Stupid, pompous, proud, obnoxious, uneducated, reticent… meanie._

_Anywhooo…_

"So here is the ashtray. Again. And this here's the empty gun rack. Again. And this is the suitcase I brought from Boston. Again. And this thing here around my neck is a painful reminder of how Mundy thinks I'm a retarded brat who doesn't deserve his love and will never come close to kissing me… again."

She pointed her camera at her neck. Looking up at the ceiling, she groaned. She plucked at the material the inside of the van was padded with. The van had the same smell as most vehicles had, slightly metallic, but also with a hint of exhaust fumes and new carpeting. Pepper was worried that if she continued to spend hours and hours in the van, she will not only grow insane, but develop some strange disease, as her lungs and nostrils start to produce mould shaped like tiny pine- air fresheners. She marched down to the small coffee table in the back, and noticed the small discolorations on it, circular and brightly yellow. Going completely mad, she filmed the table.

"This, dear person who is watching this, is a one of a kind, indispensable coffee table. Who knows how many hours our friendly neighborhood assassin spent on it, planning his next kill? How many cigarettes he put out on its surface? This table, this symbol of Australian pride and freedom, which comes second only to American pride and liberty, is…" she kneeled under the small table, looking at the small sticker at the bottom.

"…is made in China."

Pepper cursed, dropping the camera on the table, giving it a spin and collapsing on the bed. The documentary, if she could even call it that, was going nowhere. She kicked off her martens and stretched her legs. She rolled over to the side, on Mundy's pillow. She took a couple of deep, almost obsessive inhales before rolling to the side.

"Boooooooooored!" she groaned. Honestly, she thought Australia would be like a three week long party. But as it turned out, this little trip of hers was more like a intimate get together, followed by a massive hangover, which was weird because nobody actually had anything to drink. But she couldn't keep thinking about this metaphor.

"Boooored. Booored. Bo-ho-hooored…" she sung in a beat. She wasn't bored, per se, but mostly irritated that she was forced to stay here in this tiny carpeted cubicle. She groaned once again and flipped back on her stomach, landing with a satisfying thump.

At that moment, Mundy walked in the van, his black vest covered in blood, and a large grin on his face. He opened his closet and tossed a small bag full of teeth in it. Pepper grinded her teeth as she heard the slight rattling of teeth as they landed on the wooden shelf. She assumed that the hunt of his went well.

"Hello to you to." She growled at him, focusing her gaze at one small stain on the wall.

"Huh?" Mundy turned in his driver's seat, crossing off a name in his file. Just one more person and his mission will be complete. He grinned at the thought of the prize money.

"Hi, Sheila." He smiled at her, slightly gracelessly.

"I guess you got the guy, huh?"

Mundy cackled. "Sure 'ave! You should see the 'avoc in the streets, Sheila. People are ridiculous. Nobody even saw me walk out. Now that's what I call a clean kill." He said, starting the engine. Pepper remained silent. The van slowly turned from the parking spot, tucked away behind some high trees. It took them about 20 seconds to get out of it and get on the road. Nobody followed them, and they drove at a steady pace. A news crew drove straight pass them, possibly to report on the murder. Mundy watched them drive past them.

"Idiot wankahs!" he jeered. "Boy I tell ye, Sheila, you should 'ave been there. It was just so… easy, y'know? Bloke's not so tough without his body guards around." He turned to her; "Always assess your situation before makin' a clean kill, that's wot oi always say. Anyway," he returned to looking at the clear road, swerving to the side; "Oi'm just sorry you didn't film. It would be some good material. Unless you're still frightened because of last time." His voice got lower. "Oi don't blame ya, either. First toime oi killed, I threw up for a week straight. You've actually done quite well."

Pepper still remained quiet, even when Mundy made a sharp turn to the right. She wondered where they were going, but was too stubborn to ask. For a brief, terrifying second, she thought that it might be considered immature of her.

"So, uh… where are we driving?"

Mundy started to drive up a small hill. It was relatively small, but very steep. He drove slowly, almost excruciatingly so.

"Oi'm takin' ya to me favorite place in the world. The Macquarie Marshes. They're not far from here, so I figured we could stop by."

Mundy took Pepper's silence as an invitation for further explanation.

"It's me favorite place in the world. Every year, me dad and oi used to go there. Pretty soon, oi started going there myself. Fact is, that bracelet you're wearin', came from a croc I caught there."

Pepper grasped her cold necklace, cursing herself for wearing it. In fact, she didn't take it off at all. Somehow, she hoped that it would remind Mundy that they almost kissed, that he could, he should, try again. However, that man had less motivation than a scrambled turnip. She was still mad at him for not speaking to her at all yesterday. Today he was in too good of a mood to ignore her.

"'course, those crocs are extinct now, as oi recall." he continued. "But those marshes are me favorite thing in the world. Oi… oi would really loike you to see them, Sheila."

He turned to her, now getting irritated by her silence. He groaned and let go of the gas pedal when he reached a small clearance at the top. Pepper looked at him, puzzled. Mundy walked up to her and sat on the bed, cupping his head in frustration.

"Alroight, Sheila. What's the problem?"

_You turned me down like an order of spoilt beef and ignored me the next day, that's what the freakin' problem is!_

"Nothing, Mundy." she said sarcastically. At that point he gently put his hand on her shoulder.

"I know it's something, Sheila. Just tell me what it is. Oi hate to see you upset… 'specially if you're this close to leavin'…" he rubbed the soft fabric of her cotton shirt, in a way which was both irritating and incredibly soothing. She jerked her shoulder back, making him move his hand away.

"I told you it was nothing, Mundy."

The marksman rolled his eyes again, much to his discomfort. He was never used to those sarcastic movements more suitable for the young Sheila. He rubbed his forehead, counting to five in his mind.

"Alroight, Sheila. If ye say it's nothin', then it's nothin'."

_5…4…3…2…1…_

Pepper's next sentence was perfectly executed, just as Mundy stopped counting.

"I'm not a kid, ya know."

Mundy dreaded this conversation. If he said that he didn't like this girl, he would be lying. And two days ago, he had the perfect chance to make his move. She looked astonishing that day, the soft sunlight shining on her pretty face, clutching the necklace he gave her. An instinct commanded him to grab her and kiss her, make her his own. But it would have been inappropriate. It would have been impolite. It would have been…unprofessional. A girl this young… he was too much for her to handle. A spoilt little suburban brat finally living her life in the big city, and coming to Australia to work on fulfilling her dreams was not the type of girl he should be with. She was only temporary, Mundy knew that. In about a couple of days, she would be gone. And if anything happened between them, they would regret it.

Mundy knew it was the right thing to do, leaving her like that. She may not have liked it, but he did her a great favor. He avoided her for the next day, hoping that she would forget this, and that they would continue on with their little road trip, bickering over every other thing that comes to mind as they did before. It was too early for them to even attempt anything, and they both knew that. He shouldn't have any interaction with this young girl, romantic or otherwise. Mundy's mind was made up, but the rest of his body still needed convincing.

"I'm not a kid, Mundy." She repeated, waiting for a response. It was a slightly drab day outside, a couple of gray clouds accumulating over the vast sky. Mundy pretended that he didn't know what she was talking about.

"…alroight, Sheila. You're not." he shrugged.

"Don't play dumb with me, Mundy. You know what I mean." She was kneeling on the couch, looking him straight in the eye, but not raising her voice. "You know damn well what you said to me when you tried to kiss me."

Mundy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and begging for patience.

"Sheila, please, not today." He took off his bloody vest and tossed it on the ground. "Oi know you think that wot oi did was…"

"Terrible? Tormenting? Just plain mean? Retarded?"

"…not exactly the words oi was lookin' for." he raised his eyebrow. He gently cupped her shoulder, trying to make her listen to him. "Look, Sheila, oi know that you think that that was stupid of me, but one day, you will understand…"

"I don't want to understand!" she shrieked, slapping his hand off. "I am not a freakin' kid! I don't know if you realize this, but I guarantee you that I am a mature grown-up who actually has some intelligence. And don't you dare insult my intelligence with that "it's for the best" crap of yours." her nostrils flared angrily. Mundy stayed calm and collected, emphasizing every word.

"It's not about me insulting you, Sheila. Oi'm just…oi'm getting too old to do this. Oi'm getting too old for you."

"Bullshit!" she crossed her arms.

"Oi'm 17 years older than you, Sheila! Oi could be your father!"

"Look, as far as I see it, we are both sensible adults. If I'm allowed to work in a brothel and drive, there's no reason for us to…"

"You cannot drink, Sheila. You're still too young to understand some things." He looked away from her, feeling slightly humiliated. "Oi just don't think it is supposed to work. You're leaving soon, anyway."

"All the more reason!" Pepper sat on the bed, placing her hands on her knees. "You can say everything you want, but if you don't feel like I do, just for a bare second," she made a pinching motion at him; "you wouldn't have tried to kiss me."

"Oi don't know what came over me! Oi'm sorry oi was irresponsible back then, but that was just a moment of…"

"Victor!" she cried, making him look straight back at her.

"You don't have to plan every moment and calculate every possible outcome. Be spontaneous, like I am! You're not on the job now. Relax, damn it!"

"Wot in bloody hell do you want me to do, Sheila?"

"This!"

With that, she grabbed the back of his head and leaned forward, pressing her soft lips against his. His eyes were wide open with surprise, as Pepper pushed her lips against his, strongly and uncontrollably, trying to get all her tension out. He pushed her lips back with his, buying himself some time to figure out what to do next. He grabbed her back and pulled her closer to him, making her gasp. She lightly parted his lips, letting her soft, silky tongue caress them softly. The marksman closed his eyes, finally coming to a conclusion that this is the time he shouldn't think. Pepper placed her hand on his abdomen, softly touching the ridges of his abdominal muscles through the sot, thin fabric. The movements became faster as she developed a rhythm. Unexpectedly, he pushed her against the wall, forcing himself on her small bosom. She reacted by stroking the back of his thighs, making him grunt. The kiss was passionate, intoxicating, and one of the most forceful ones Mundy ever endured. It lasted for about less than half a minute, when Pepper nudged him off her, gasping for air. Her body was pounding, and she looked at him with lustful eyes.

Mundy didn't want this to happen. But now, he was glad he did. This girl had something in her, something that made his head spin. They looked at each other, panting heavily. The temperature rose for about a hundred degrees, and small beads of sweat formed on the girl's forehead. She forced herself to calm down. As soon as she did, she looked down at her lap and apologized in a croaked voice.

"I…I just… was that too much?"

Victor felt his heart violently racing. No kill could make him as excited as he was now. This girl that walked into his life, wearing martens and dragging a black matte suitcase was something different. She was like a cure for a dying man. He licked his dry lips and looked at this young lady who made him question all he learned in his workplace about discipline and professionalism. Pepper made his life worth living again. And there is no way in hell that he's going to back away that easily.

"Was that too much?" she said with pleading eyes, expecting the answer "yes" but hoping for a "no".

Mundy pushed her down, grabbing her wrists gently, yet firmly, and kissing her once more. The kiss was passionate, forceful, and it made her toes curl.

"It wasn't enough."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were laying on the red couch that was leaning slightly to the side, staring at the carpeted ceiling. Mundy held a lit cigarette in his left hand, occasionally taking a drag. Pepper was tucked between his arm and his chest, her hand resting comfortably on his stomach. She wasn't looking anywhere, but her eyes were pointed at the heavens, smiling and shining with euphoria. She chuckled occasionally, and let out a sigh.

"That was…" she finally spoke after three minutes of short, joyful giggles; "…that was… That was pretty good." She smiled at him. The marksman took another drag, blowing the smoke in small expanding circles.

"You okay, Sheila?" he asked with a smile. "I didn't hurt you, or anything, did I?"

"No, not really. I mean, the first couple of minutes were slightly painful…" she bit her lip, recalling the sharp, continuous pain.

"Oi'm sorry." He kissed her forehead lovingly.

"No, no, no, it's alright. I… I enjoyed it for the most part." She turned to the side, facing the road they were supposed to go down. "Does it always last fifteen minutes?"

"Depends." He said, taking yet another drag and blowing the smoke through his nose. "Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter…"

Pepper turned at him, looking slightly shocked. She batted her long eyelashes at him.

"You're telling me it can be even shorter?" she almost sounded appalled.

"You really are a virgin, Sheila." He was slightly insulted by this remark, but managed to laugh off his annoyance upon realizing how disappointed the girl would be later in life.

"_Were, _Mundy. You really _were_ a virgin." she corrected him. She felt his strong arm around her waist. She smiled, thinking how easy it was to get over this dreaded moment. If done with the right person, it can be quite magical.

"You do realize, Sheila, that this is the stupidest thing we could 'ave done roight now?" he asked, flicking his cigarette ashes on the couch.

"Are you honestly gonna make me feel guilty about it now, Mundy?" Pepper moved up closer to him, the couch squealing in pain. "Sorry about the sofa, by the way."

"It's alroight. Damn thing was meant to be broken someday."

Pepper closed her eyes. Finally, she found a person she can trust. Even if she was going to leave him soon, she knew that somewhere, there was her complete opposite that fits her perfectly. Nothing will ruin this moment. Never, in a million years.

Suddenly, the van jumped up. Pepper opened her eyes wide, not knowing what had just happened. Even Victor seemed bemused.

"Wot in bloody 'ell?" he muttered, putting out his cigarette on the coffee table, a small streak of smoke coming out of the yellowing surface.

"Uh…Mundy? When you stopped the car on the hill, did you put it in park or reverse?"

The question didn't need to be answered, as they both saw a couple of large trees going past them at what seemed to be rapid speed.

"Piss!" Mundy exclaimed, practically jumping over the stunned girl and the wooden coffee table, and running to the driver's seat buck naked, obviously panicking. Pepper couldn't help but chuckle at Mundy's ghastly sprint across the vehicle.

"Oh…This I've gotta film." Pepper said, emitting a short chuckle and grabbing her camera.

_Well, at least I'm not bored anymore…_

**_Day 19:_**

A mosquito is nature's flying platypus. At least, according to Pepper. Flying little useless creatures that failed to have any use for the world, and were considered God's drunken mistake. And it was a mosquito that woke up Pepper that morning, buzzing around her ear.

She was sleeping on the broken red couch when the nefarious insect flew across her face. Her reflexes still damaged, she only managed to wave her hand around, smacking the thing without actually doing it any harm. She scratched the back of her arm, where the thing stung her while she was sleeping. Enraged by this annoying being, she clapped in mid-air, leaving the thing dead on her hands. Her palms were covered in blood, and she failed to grasp the concept of a tiny insect having that much blood in his system and still wanting more.

"Gross." She commented and cleaned the blood off the couch. You can't see red on red, can you? She sat up on the couch, looking at the coffee table in front of her. On it was her crocodile tooth necklace, and her camera. She slipped on the necklace over her head, like she did for the past three days. She fingered it slightly, recalling the memories of the past few days.

"I think I broke my pelvis." she yawned, laughing away the thought. When she finally got around to getting up, the sun was shining brightly through the loosely drawn curtains. Pepper guessed that it was about noon. She squinted at the sun, shining oddly with a strange greenish glow.

"Mundy?" she called out, listening closely for a response. It didn't come.

"Mundy?" she continued, her calling turning into teasing. "Mundy? Victor? Vic? Vicky? Sugar? Weird Guy Who Drives Me Around Whose Name I Forgot?" she opened the door of the van, letting in some more blinding light.

"Victoria?"

Victor stood before her, looking at the distance. But what he was looking at was indescribable. It was absolute perfection. The sun gleamed over the emerald tree branches, intertwining in mid-air, making a leafy cover, hovering over the larger patch of shallow water. The five herbig trees reflected against the water's smooth surface. A couple dozen dragon flies flew above its surface, flapping their silvery wings, occasionally landing on a long thin blade of grass. A family of geese flew up in the air, giving Pepper a slight fright. She admired their impeccable wing work, flying off in a perfect V, their long brown wings flapping in harmony. It was an extremely muddy place, but covered with many small bushes and tall trees, making her feel like she was on a beautiful plain. The sun shined brightly, yet the atmosphere was very crisp and slightly chilly. Crickets chirped in the distance loudly, calling their mates. All of this beauty on one spot. Pepper nearly dropped her camera.

"Is this the swamp you were talking about?" she said in a croaked, sleepy voice.

"The Macquarie Marshes. I knew you'd loike it, Sheila. We won't be doin' any hunting today though, gotta save my ammo."

Pepper nodded in understanding. She took out her camera and started filming the beauty around her. She needed to capture as much as she could. Her still stiff feet dragged her to a grassy patch, which was relatively dry. She sat on it with a loud sigh, holding her bare freezing knees tightly while filming the panorama. She pointed her camera at the van, parked on the grassy field. Its wheels were muddy and covered in thin blades of grass. She failed to comprehend why someone would go through the trouble of driving all the way through the grimy muck, even if the destination was this fascinating. Pepper was always slightly lazy, and she shook her head upon realizing that, if it weren't for Mundy, she would never see this.

Speak of the devil, Mundy sat next to her, crossing his ankles. Pepper held the heavy camera on her knees, rummaging through her bag. She was looking for a piece of paper, not wanting to capture this moment on film alone.

"How do you like it, Sheila?" he asked, looking at the big stack of papers on Pepper's hand.

"It's beautiful, Mundy." She said, opening the cap of the green pen with her teeth.

Suddenly, Mundy spotted something. The paper stuck out more than the others, and he could clearly read the title scribbled on top in cursive, and with three sharp lines pulled under it. The title was simply, _"The Australian"._

"Wot's that, then?" he asked politely enough, grabbing the sheet of Paper sticking from the pile, making the pile crumble under Pepper's hands. She immediately recognized the poem she dabbled yesterday. Her face turned white and beet red at the same time.

"It's nothing, give it back!" she reached her hand to grab it, but the marksman held the sheet a few inches further away. He looked at her pained face, grunting as she tried to reach it. He jokingly pushed her away, trying to make out what she scribbled.

Pepper knew. It was an idealized description of what happened yesterday, written in sub-par rhyme. She must've forgotten to throw it away. Mundy didn't take her childish attempts to retrieve it seriously, and instead began reading it out loud.

"Wot's this then, Sheila? "_The Australian: A Sonnet of Desire?" _Well now, oi have to read this."

"Give it!" she stood up straight, reaching her arm out, trying to reach the elusive paper, only to fail as the already unfairly tall marksman propped himself up on his toes. He put his other hand on her face, lightly pushing her away. He cleared his throat and read the first few lines.

"I don't think you got the rhyming scheme correct, Sheila." He couldn't help but notice that she was getting insulted.

"What? There are variations, you know. Now give it!" her voice turned high pitched and annoyed.

"_He grabbed on my wrist tightly, we let the love begin. His lips whispered love lightly, but his eyes shouted sin…"_

In what seemed like an epic leap, Pepper snatched the paper from the slim Australian, ripping it up to shreds and hastily stuffed those shreds into her bag. Mundy looked at her red face, his upper lip raised slightly in somewhat of a grin.

"Now wot'd you do that for, Sheila? Oi wanted to see 'ow it ended."

"Look, Mundy…" she took a deep breath through her mouth; "what happened yesterday was amazing. I only wrote about it because I had to..."

"Wait a tick, that wos about yesterday?" he said, now truly mocking her.

"Anyway…" Pepper frowned; "I didn't want anyone to see that, including you. I mean, when something like that happens…" she sat down hopelessly; "…I just want to keep it a secret. Because it won't happen again. So I don't want anyone to know about it."

"Wot makes you think it won't happen again?"

"Mundy, I leave in two days." She sighed. "So, if anyone else knew about me…about you… I would be devastated, you know?"

Mundy sat down next to her, not minding the mud catching on the fabric of his pants. He scooted over to Pepper and grabbed her hand.

"How about you stay here?" he suggested.

Pepper almost choked on some saliva in her mouth. She looked at him with a strange dose of shock and anger. She managed to articulate a sentence, her voice croaked and jittery.

"Here…where?"

"Here…here. In Australia. With me." He looked at her, an uncomfortable frown on his face. Pepper didn't have much of a reaction to that. She didn't shriek with joy, she didn't yell at him, she didn't speak at all. Her head rested on his shoulder for a while, thinking over his proposal.

"Don't you think that was a bit of a cliché?"

"How's that, Sheila?"

"Easy. A small town girl goes to the big city, gets a job in a very shady place, and then she goes to another country. There she meets this knucklehead incapable of emotions until basically the very last day. She teaches him how to feel, he teaches her to act her own freakin' age. And then he asks her to stay with him, as if she would leave everything behind. A cliché among clichés. Isn't it?"

Mundy stretched out his arm around her, looking in the distance.

"Well, they wouldn't call it a cliché if it never 'appened." Pepper was now looking at him, batting her eyes at Mundy.

"You would really consider leaving your loner lifestyle? For a spoilt brat. Seriously?"

"Well, you would have to work on your accent. It irritates me. If I had to sit with a Bostonian other than you and listen to him talk for hours, I would shoot my 'ead off." He shrugged.

"Stop, Mundy, you're making me blush." she rolled her eyes.

"Oi'm just sayin', would you really want to go back to Bee Cave that soon? Or would you return to that shady old brothel in Boston?"

"So I have a choice between you, my family, and my future?"

"You can visit your family, and you have a future here. You can join me. You handle a gun pretty well."

Pepper's skin started to crawl at the thought of the man she shot. She still had terrifying thoughts of that day, but it was getting easier to cope. Australia made her tougher than she was before.

"You think that after thirty years we'll be a couple of old geezers driving in a van, climbing up watch towers and shooting people? That's the only future I see."

"Look, you 'ave toime to think about it…"

"I have one day, Mundy!" she practically screamed. She immediately calmed herself down, leaning on his strong shoulder. She took a deep inhale, smelling the musky scent of his shirt and the earthy notes of the marsh. The crickets still chirped in the background.

"It's a beautiful day, Mundy. Let's just enjoy it for now." she said, grabbing his hand. The Australian lifted her chin up, giving her a soft kiss. Pepper turned her camera off when he began to lick her lips gently with the tip of his tongue, making her shiver. Maybe he will forget about this, she hoped. Maybe come tomorrow, he will come to his senses. She felt the cold ground against her back as she let her lover climb on her, his lips firmly pressed against hers.

Tomorrow came, and Mundy still hadn't changed his mind. But Pepper has.

**_Day 20:_**

When Pepper woke up that day, she knew that she wanted to stay with Mundy. It wouldn't be the most convenient thing to do, but it would make her happiest. Boston was just a stepping stone, her film career wouldn't be going anywhere if she couldn't make one bleeding documentary, and she didn't want to sing in Morrison's brothel until she was old and gray. And if she was already singing there, it was just a matter of time before her employer gave her a "promotion"…

But she didn't want to think about this. She would tell Mundy later today. He still had to catch one man on his list, so they were off to the desert again. Pepper was tired of living in fear, and realized that she had to develop a strong stomach if she wanted to be Mundy's companion in his hunting trips across the ruthless Australian outback. So when Mundy invited her to come with him, she was more than willing to bear the initial fear and go with him. He gave her his SMG for protection.

"Oi hope you know how to use it, Sheila."

"Yeah. I think my Nana gave me one of these to play with on her farm in Texas…"  
The marksman laughed. Pepper loaded it and stepped outside, feeling better already. Before she left, she grabbed her camera. Just because she won't be returning to Boston to give the film to her professor, doesn't mean she can't capture the look on Mundy's face when he finds out that she's staying.

_12:07 p.m._

A typical sight in Australia; two soon-to-be head hunting lovebirds perching in an abandoned shack, peering through the window, their SMG and sniper rifle at the ready. This particular little town was an abandoned Australium miner's town. It was extremely populated during the 1890s, until the Australium supply ran out. The only things left are six small wooden cottages, a phone near the road and sixteen cases of vintage Wankah!, probably turned to dust by now. Ironically, Wankah! probably tasted better in its now dusty form than it did originally.

Mundy phoned his parents again, making up another lie about him being a successful doctor. A surgeon, nothing less. He never had the heart to tell them about his true profession, though he phoned them regularly. Speaking of phoning, strange company contacted him again, this time saying something about "using force". As always, he told them to piss off and stop blocking the line. As every worthy assassin, he had a secret frequency on the radio, connecting him to his current employer. He often gave him the names of people he wanted dead, their characteristics, and their usual hiding places if they knew. It was more than a shock to Mundy as the "company" hacked into the frequency, offering him a job. He shook off the nasty thought of their last message and looked at Pepper.

Pepper was clutching the SMG like a security blanket, her hair falling down her face as she nervously looked outside the broken window, too scared to breathe. Her crocodile tooth necklace hung on her neck, and she was wearing Mundy's black vest, rumored to be bullet proof. He had never been shot before, so the actual function was up to question. The aesthetic appearance was what mattered more to him, and this particular vest looked damn sexy. Even more on Pepper.

"You okay, love?" he asked her. She smiled at him, nodding his head. She couldn't wait to tell him that she was planning on staying. A million thoughts flew through her head. Should she tell him before or after he starts harvesting the victim's teeth? Would she still be in contact with her family after that? She can always phone them. She wouldn't get those lovely letters from Sarah like she used to, which would always bright up her day. But she could always send her letters, and that's still something.

"Hold still, Sheila." He commanded her silently, as they saw a small white car approaching. Pepper hid her head as it parked in front of the pay phone. A young suited man came out, and Pepper immediately knew that it was him. The man walked out of the car, leaving the door open. He walked slowly towards the pay phone. Mundy and Pepper nodded at each other, and in a mere second, a shot was fired, and the man dropped to the ground instantly. Pepper looked out the window carefully.

"Is he dead?" she asked, whispering. The man was motionless, but there was something odd about him.

"Oi… oi suppose." He said, squinting at the body. It didn't look like it was going to walk anytime soon, but it didn't seem quite right.

"Should we…check it out?" asked Pepper, still confused about how easy this was. Mundy signaled her to follow him, and they silently snuck out the old cabin, the old wooden floorboards howling beneath their feet as they made quick, light steps across them.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Mundy." Pepper said, as they were walking towards the body in an abandoned town. The marksman signaled her to come closer, almost welding herself onto him. She held her SMG close to her chest, looking around nervously. By the time the two of them got close to the person they shot, it was clear that something was wrong.

"That isn't blood coming through his skull." Mundy observed the thick black liquid pouring out a hole on his head.

"Then what the hell is it?"

Pepper kneeled over the man, despite Mundy's warning, and touched the man's head. It was cold and lifeless, but not like a dead body. And the smell, the smell of the chilling liquid was extremely familiar, the smell that haunted Pepper when she was a kid, every time she walked into her father's workshop.

"Mundy… this is not a human." She cleaned off the motor oil of her fingers. "It's an imitation humanoid."

Though the sun shined with all of its might, both of them suddenly felt cold. While Pepper was examining the metal skeleton of the humanoid replica, Mundy stepped back and looked around. Whoever made this was onto him. And whoever was onto him…

Mundy screamed as he felt a sharp pain in his neck. He fell to his knees and started wheezing, as he felt a strong substance flowing over his body. His muscles began to stiffen, and a dark shadow went over his eyes. He could hear Pepper calling his name, running over to him. He touched his neck, and felt a long glass tube stuck in it. He pulled at it, and found himself looking at a syringe, half full of strange greenish liquid. The long needle was covered in his blood. When he averted his eyes from it, he saw Pepper, lying unconsciously on the floor. Three large needles were jabbed into her flesh, into her back. She had her hand on her SMG gun, which was now smoking. Mundy didn't hear it fire. In fact, Mundy didn't hear anything. Two men were coming out of the white car, after squatting under the seat. One was holding a large weapon; a transparent cylindrical case filled with syringes. The other was clutching his chest, blood filling up his white lab coat. Mundy attempted to crawl towards the SMG, more and more syringes fired at him. By this time all of his senses went numb. He couldn't hear, he couldn't see, and he could barely breathe. He was inches away from the SMG, grasped by Pepper's lifeless hand. The needle that finished him off was fired at his thigh. A tall blonde man fired it at him, after which he raised his head to laugh victoriously. The last thing that Mundy saw was that his nose was slightly crooked.

**_Day 21:_**

_The Badlands, New Mexico; 2:02 a.m._

The blonde doctor was walking through a large hallway, his footsteps echoing against the metal walls. He held his head up high, had an angry look on his face, and his right hand was shaking behind his back. About three minutes ago, he finished developing the film he found in the young girl's camera. The young girl was with the man he and his colleague were supposed to recruit, per Helen's order. They were sent south as a punishment for rejecting a former candidate, John, now Jane Doe. They never thought a young girl would be more trouble than this assassin that ran away from them and refused to speak to them. Helen's orders were orders, so they had to take him by force.

The dim light lit the cold path the doctor was walking on. He rubbed his broken nose, not moving his eyes from the small white door at the end of the hallway. He never expected this to be easy. But he never expected that a young girl would cost him his best friend, either.

That little bitch. He found her data in the system; the little hex was arrested once for stealing a bottle of black nail polish. They lifted her prints, but nothing more. Luckily, this was enough for them to find out who she was, where she lived. They found out more about her upon developing the film they found in the camera. No compromising evidence there, the last few images were shot moments before his colleague died. You couldn't see the car's license plate, or their faces. It couldn't compromise them in any way, so the camera and the film were to be sent to the address on the small leather tag. The doctor wasn't sure if the receiver was going to like it.

_If found, return to __Conagher, Green Lane 6, Bee Cave, Texas_.

The girl, on the other hand, was in the infirmary, unconscious. Mundy's actions will determine her fate.

With a small twist, the doctor opened the door. In it was none other than Mundy, the infamous marksman, handcuffed to a chair in a damp room. It was a nauseating olive green, complete with dark hardwood floors. A single white mattress was on the floor, not even covered with a sheet. A dangling lamp was the only source of light, and it lit up Mundy's grim groggy face for one second, before leaving it in darkness again, until it came back. It made a strange, ticking noise as it swung from left to right. The Chamber 219. One of the more eerie rooms in this base.

"Good morning, mister Mundy. I hope you have slept well."

Mundy tried to grab the smug doctor by the throat and break his tiny body in half, but was held back by the set of handcuffs around his wrist. The chair was solid steel, welded to the ground. It looked more like an electric chair than anything else. The doctor didn't laugh at Mundy's despair, as much as he wanted to. He pulled a small metal trash bin closer to him.

"Who…who are you people?"

"We believe that we have explained that in our previous conversations. But, my name is doctor Laszlo. I am personally responsible for recruiting you."

"Where is she?" Mundy growled at the man, speaking in a strong Alaskan accent.

"Don't worry, we didn't hurt her…yet. Is this who you are talking about?" Doctor Laszlo pulled out a small color photo of Pepper. It was taken in Boston, in her workplace. She was in the centre of the photo, kicking her feet high up while dancing on the gray bar counter. She wore a tight red dress, her red hair puffed up high in the air. She was singing, much to the amusement of the male customers, all having other, less charismatic women in their laps. This was the Pepper Mundy saw three weeks ago. He wouldn't have given her a second of his time if she was always like that. But the smile on her face was familiar…those big green eyes sparkling so innocently, even while she performed on the most foul of venues. That was the real Pepper Conagher. That was his Sheila…and this bastard had her.

"Where is she?!" Mundy screamed again.

"My, my… you do have a strange taste in women, Mister Mundy." said Laszlo, examining the picture. "This girl of yours… she was a very bad girl, mister Mundy." he said in an almost perverted tone, walking around the heavily breathing Mundy.

"Do you know this girl shot and killed a member of a secret organization? That is a criminal offence. Punishable by death." Laszlo leaned over to the aggravated Mundy.

"For some reason, my employer found that you would fit well into our little team that we are creating… as a Sniper. But you seemed oh-so-eager to turn us down, didn't you? But, maybe…maybe if you reconsidered joining us… you can greatly chance the girl's…outcome." He leaned over to him, smiling. Mundy stared at him, wanting to break the metal links of the handcuffs.

"Kiss my ass, you fucking wankah." he said, spitting Laszlo in the eye. The doctor moved away, and wiped off the spit from his face, still smiling.

"Oh, Mundy, Mundy…" he chuckled. "I don't think you understand… we have enough evidence and reason to terminate miss Conagher forever."

"It was self defense, you fucking wankah! You put 'er up to it!" he screamed, tugging at the cuff around his hand, and hopelessly reaching his other arm towards the doctor. But his other arm was weak from all the neurotoxins flowing through his system.

"I am afraid that you are incorrect. You shot our little robot friend first, remember?" Laszlo pulled out a lighter and held it close to the picture.

"How about this, mister Mundy? If you join our little family, we'll forget that this ever happened. We send the girl to Boston, where she lives an alright, though slightly whorish, life. Your contract expires in a year or so, and then you can get reunited with her. That is…**if** you comply…"

Mundy listened to the doctor, not believing that this is actually happening.

"And if oi refuse?"

"You walk home a free man… The girl, however…"

Doctor Laszlo flipped the lighter. Soon, the hot orange flames engulfed the edges of the picture. The sides began to burn, leaving dark, papery traces of what once was a color picture. They soon began to expand to the girl's body, engulfing her red dress. The flames began to go higher, reaching over Pepper, her face the only thing not engulfed by the flames. Laszlo threw the picture in the garbage can, and the fire burst out like a volcano, leaving Mundy to sweat. He almost screamed at the thought of something happening to Pepper.

"You're a monster." Mundy managed.

"You turned me into one when your friend killed my colleague. Now, Mundy… you have two choices. Save the girl and work here, or leave us, and have that on your mind forever." He pointed at the flames quieting down. Mundy was angry at the man. But if what he said was true…

"If oi join you… she will be safe?"

"Completely, mister Mundy." Laszlo took out a document and a pen.

"Please sign on the dotted line, Sir. If you can't in your drugged condition, sign with an X."

_Boston, Massachusetts; 8:02 a.m._

When Pepper woke up that day, she knew that she wanted to stay with Mundy. It wouldn't be the most convenient thing to do, but it would make her happiest. Boston was just a stepping stone, her film career wouldn't be going anywhere if she couldn't make one bleeding documentary, and she didn't want to sing in Morrison's brothel until she was old and gray. And if she was already singing there, it was just a matter of time before her employer gave her a "promotion"…

But something was wrong. She wasn't in a van. She was in her tiny apartment in Boston. She saw the mould on the walls, and looked at the cracked ceiling. She looked around her apartment, looking at her black matte suitcase. It was full of her clothes, the same ones she wore to Australia. She scratched her head, blinking heavily. As she touched the crocodile tooth dangling on her neck, she had a strange sense of déjà vu.

"Mundy?" she called, but nobody answered back.

She must've decided to return to Boston after all. Maybe her decision to stay with Mundy was all a dream. She scratched her arm. It hurt her like hell, and she felt three small holes on the surface.

"Mosquitoes." She concluded and stood up from her springy bed. Everything was there. She really was in Australia. It has been a magical time, indeed. But she was puzzled; how couldn't she remember a thing that happened yesterday. At least she got it on film.

_Film…_

In a rush of panic, Pepper flipped over her suitcase, tossing out all of her clothes. She rummaged through the shorts, shirts and corsets, flipping them around. She ran and opened all the closets one by one. She felt around her bed, and even rummaged through the bathroom and small kitchen. It can't be… it can't be. She clutched her head and fell to her knees.

"I've lost my camera!" she screamed, pulling her hair. She burst out crying promptly when an old cranky neighbor told her to "shut da fuck up". All of those memories…gone. All that hard work… she bit her knuckle as her hot tears dripped on the cold floor.

_Bee Cave, Texas; 7:07 a.m._

Irene waved goodbye to Dell as he walked away ten minutes ago, to the car leading him to New Mexico. She finally got off the phone after talking to Aunt Millie, and convincing her that Dell wasn't dead. Sarah went to school already, and Irene was relaxing with a hot cup of coffee. For the first time, there was no tension in the house. This job will be good for Dell, she knew it.

Suddenly, she heard a doorbell ring. It was none other than the mailman, with a special delivery. It was a camera and a developed film sent by Pepper.

"I don't understand. I thought she needed this." She squinted at the film, which she was dying to watch.

"Maybe she wanted you to see it." The mailman shrugged.

Irene thanked him, and rushed to the living room. Or rather, the movie projector. Pepper was just supposed to come back to Boston today. Why was she sending her this? Maybe it's because she was done early and wanted to show her the movie. Bless her heart. Irene started the projector, hurting her thumb in the process. She sat on the sofa and started watching the movie.

"I can't wait to show this to Sarah. She's going to be so happy to see her sister."

_Bee Cave, Texas; 8:41 a.m._

"What kind of sick movie is this?"

Irene has been watching the movie for what seemed like a lifetime. In all her life she never watched the movie so terrible. It was full of violence, dirty jokes and allusions that Pepper is a common whore. Is this even a documentary? What is this, an art film?

The Australian she interviewed was particularly disgusting. He urinated in jars, never bathed and done illegal actions for a living. Her poor, poor daughter. How could she be pole dancing in diners? How could she film people getting brutally murdered? She held her stomach closely, feeling sick the whole time. There was nothing good about this movie. Nothing, in a million years. Irene held her head, and was now getting a migraine.

Her daughter was now fighting with the man for some reason, something about not kissing her. Irene laughed. This was definitely a comedy. A satire, most likely. This couldn't have been a documentary. But something was odd about this angle of filming. She put the camera on the table, got on the sofa and started exclaiming that she was bored. She stayed like that for two minutes or something, not paying attention to it. Even when the man came in, she still turned away from it facing the wall. At one point, the man came up to her. They were now definitely fighting.

_"You don't have to plan every moment and calculate every possible outcome. Be spontaneous, like I am! You're not on the job now. Relax, damn it!"_

_"Wot in bloody hell do you want me to do, Sheila?"_

_"This!"_

And with that, her beautiful daughter kissed this awful, disgusting creature. Irene felt nauseous. And it was all so…real. Like everything she feared came true in about twenty seconds. She averted her eyes. There is no way that this was real, no possible way in hell.

And then, horror.

_"Was that too much?"_

_"It wasn't enough."_

Irene saw it. Irene saw the brutal, disgusting image. The whole thing, the entire fifteen minutes of it. She threw up at one point and started crying. After it, they discussed what had just happened. Irene didn't want to listen to it. Not her, not her beautiful baby. She paid no attention to what just happened. Her heart almost stopped when the naked man jumped over her daughter. She muttered something about filming and picked up the camera, turning it off.

She turned it off then.

Is this what Pepper wanted to show? This disgusting snuff film? Irene was angry, sweating. She clenched her fists. She ran to the large metal projector, and flipped it to the ground. It hissed in protest. It was gone. The foul image was gone, but Irene would never forget it. She grabbed the wall, wheezing. She walked to the kitchen, searching through the drawers. She found the number of the company Dell was hired in. She dialed the number with her shaky hands.

_"Y'ello?" _he finally answered.

"Dell?" she asked nervously.

_"Irene? What's going on?"_

"I just wanted to tell you…" she gulped; "Pepper isn't coming home."

_"What? Why?"_ he asked, and Irene thought it was best to keep it simple.

"I won't let her." The phone line went dead. Irene broke down and cried, ignoring the ringing phone. She cried until Sarah came home. She then ran to the bathroom and cried some more. Her baby… her beautiful baby…  
Will never be a part of their family again.

_Badlands, New Mexico; 9:01 a.m._

Mundy was sitting in the resupply room, cleaning one of his jars with a small rag. A young man sat next to him, after he talked on the phone with his mom. Frankly, Mundy didn't want him there next to him, but he couldn't exactly concentrate on anything. He only thought about this job. If it was the only way to keep Pepper safe, he would work for the bastards gladly. The man near him became more and more nervous as time passed by.

"What are we waiting for, anyway?" he asked.

"You'll see... momma's boy." Mundy grinned. He needed a reason to grin at something more that anything today.

A suited man smoking a cigarette left the resupply room soon after the Announcer announced that the mission will begin in 60 seconds. This turned out to be a test, which annoyed the young man.

"Yo, man, how long are we supposed ta wait here, anyway?" he yelped. Mundy ignored him. The man continued to yelp in his annoying Bostonian accent.

"Yo! Kangaroo guy, I'm tawkin to you!"

Mundy turned to him.

"How'd you know oi was Australian?" he asked half heartedly.

"I can tell nationalities. It's just one of my many talents." Said the man, crossing his arms behind his back.

"Alroight, kid."

The man stared at him.

"What, you don't believe me? I bet you five bucks I can tell who everyone is around here!"

"I doubt it."

"Oh, it's on!"

Mundy groaned. He didn't want it to be "on".

"Foine then…" he sighed, leaving his now impeccably clean jar.

"That guy oveh there is Texan." He pointed at a man wearing a hardhat, tuning his guitar.

"How do you know?"

" I just do. Hey, you!" the young man yelped at the supposed Texan.

"Yeah?"

"You's Texan, right?"

The man was baffled by this question. "Yes?"

"Told ya's I could tell nationalities. I could since I was five."

"Oi stand corrected, momma's boy." Teased Mundy while picking at his stubble.

"What, you don't believe me? What about that guy?" he pointed at a black man, drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Scrumpy.

"Scottish." They both said in unison, as soon as they looked at the drunkie.

"…and that guy is German. Now tell me I don't have a gift!" the young man yelped at the older man holding a sniper rifle.

"Bloody hell, mate, even I could tell that 'e's German." Mundy seemed irritated. The boy looked for other, more challenging guys.

"Okay den." The wall opened up, and a suited man came in the room again, holding a lit cigarette.

"Yo!" the obnoxious man screamed. "You is French, right? I could smell your cheese cologne from the hall!"

The suited man rolled his eyes and smiled sarcastically.

"..._non,_ I am a belly dancer from Barbados."

"Ey, quit your bullshittin'!" the boy commanded. He suddenly looked at an obese man who had just walked into the room, the door shutting behind him. He was looking around the room, already dissapointed in his teammates.

"You, you is Russian, right?" he asked, tapping his feet against the floor. Heavy nodded.

"See? See? I told yas I could tell nationalities! I told yas!" he irritated the marksman sitting next to him, adjusting his fingerless gloves.

"Alroite, you win, momma's boy. You have a gift. Now piss off."

"Don't call me momma's boy, brah! Think of a better insult!" Mundy sighed.

"Roite then. Piss off, wanker." The boy went silent for a second or so.

"That's bettah... I guess."

Slightly irritated that he already lost a bet, he walked up to a man wearing a hard hat on the other side of the room. He was desperately trying to reach someone on the other end of the phone.

"Marital problems?" Mundy asked.

"Kind of." sighed the shorter man. "My wife is angry at my daughter or something."

Mundy didn't really want to talk to this man either, but it was either him or the kid.

"Daughter, huh?"

"Yep. She wasn't home for over a year. And my wife found today to get mad about something. Eh. She'll come around."

"Over a year, huh?"

"Yep. Goin' to film school. Aw, shucks, I miss her like hell." He pulled out a small letter tucked in the pocket of his overalls. "I keep this in case I get homesick. Turns out I'll be needing it sooner than I thought."

He opened the folded letter. Mundy looked at it and almost fainted. It was cursive. And written in green pen. His face turned completely white. Only one person knew how to write that well.

"You alright, boy? You seem pale."

"Oi… oi'm foine." he said, slowly retreating to the other side. He sat next to the Bostonian. Pepper was in trouble, somehow. And a strange, guilty feeling told him that it was his fault.

"Yo, what took ya so long, slim?" the kid yelped again. This time he really ignored him.

And, suddenly, Victor Mundy had a moment of pure clearance. It was the film. It was about the film.

_Oi'm sorry, Sheila._


	12. From France With Love

**Author's note:** **Action! Drama! Romance! Comedy! Sappers! Crepes!...  
**  
...will not be seen in this chapter due to my recent case of writer's block. But, I guess what I came up with isn't terrible. Before I go on, I would like to thank my fantastic reviewers, who always brighten up my day. Or, occasionally criticise me because of completely valid reasons. Anyway, enjoy this somewhat drab chapter.

**I do not own Team Fortress 2. But you know that. Moving on...**

* * *

It was a warm morning in Boston, the sun shining brightly into a larger apartment building. The warm streaks of sunshine fell directly on a bed, where two people laid. They were staring at the ceiling, the woman's head resting on the man's shoulder. The woman was Nicole Hemmingway, as she introduced herself, and she met this man near the Boston airport, while they were waiting for a taxi. The man was Jason Jones, and he was currently holding a cigarette in his hand, taking an occasional drag. Nicole sat up on the bed, looking at the modestly decorated apartment. She swung her long platinum hair.

"Do you really have to go so soon, darling?" she smiled at him. The man didn't say a word. He tossed his cigarette butt in the small white trash bin near the door. It plopped in the centre. He then stood up and began to get dressed, leaving Nicole to stare at his smooth, sexy back.

"Do you really have to visit that woman?"

Jason barely looked at her, slightly squinting.

"I have to, dear. She's an old friend I came to visit. It wouldn't be fair to her if I stayed with you all day." He leaned over to her and kissed her lightly. The man began to tie his tie, making sure it fell down on his impeccable shirt perfectly.

"I will miss you, darling." She leaned over and took her leather handbag under the bed. As she opened the heavy bag, she felt around it, inhaling the sweet smell of fine Italian leather.

"Likewise, dear." Jason rustled his short blonde hair, frowning at his reflection. He slowly walked to the door, unaware that Nicole grabbed a small silvery revolver from her purse. She had him right where she wanted him. She grasped on the smooth handle tightly, and ogled Jason's head. He was now looking through his dresser drawer, not paying attention to the woman. Nicole pointed the revolver at his head, her finger at the trigger. She'll pull on it as soon as he gets up straight again.

"I must say, I had an amazing time last night," said Jason, reaching for a pair of gloves and a small, black remote. It had a single red button on it. "One of many, I hope."

"I highly doubt it, darling," said the woman through her teeth, ready to shoot him in the head. This is where she wanted him, and this was a perfect shot. Just then, Jason pressed the small red button on the remote, and Nicole felt a kick under her. She suddenly felt the bed going up from the floor, and she dropped the revolver in shock. Jason turned, looking at the scene with a satisfied smile on his face. Nicole had a terrified expression on her face, as the bed lifted from the dark hardwood floor and began to sink into a gap in the wall. Nicole started protesting, her words hushed by the thick mattress between her and Jason. The thin metal legs of the bed were now idly dangling, and the bed itself was fixed against the wall, between two closet doors. Jason chuckled at Nicole's pained screeches of horror and anger, and the fact that she was now in complete darkness.

"And to think my interior designer almost talked me out of buying a Murphy bed." Jason commented, taking off something resembling a thin paper mask. Jason's boyish face was replaced with a sophisticated expression of a renowned spy, wearing his notorious balaclava. He fixed his tie as Nicole kicked against the bed from the inside, hopelessly.

"I do not like them that much myself, but zey are convenient, _non_?"

Nicole continued to shout in protest, failing to comprehend that the bed could only be opened from the outside. The French man smiled at her; such a comical situation for such a comical woman.

"I will be taking zees." He grabbed the revolver lying on the floor, examining it and tucking it safely into his red jacket. He went up to the bed, and gave it a push for good measure. He heard a silent crack, hopefully coming from his old rival's spine.

_"Au revoir!"_ he waved to her. He tossed the Jason mask in the rubbish bin, hopefully never having to use it again. Nicole could be trapped in this crummy 100.000 $ Boston apartment of his for as long as she wanted. He wasn't planning on returning to it anytime soon.

* * *

Mrs. Stevenson was sitting inside a coffeehouse, taping her fingers against the table. She looked at the people passing by, hoping that he would come along soon. The coffeehouse was modeled after some French cafés, complete with various French contemporary artworks hanging from the soft green walls. The chairs inside were standard metal chairs, that looked lovely but were a pain to sit in for a prolonged period of time. She huffed, looking at her watch. It was a black Rolex, a birthday present from none other than the man she was waiting for. She ran her index finger along the diamond ornamented rim. It cost him a lot. She felt bad for costing him so much. These monthly visits of his were something to look forward to, but they were a painful reminder that the man couldn't be a part of her family.

Granted that her youngest was one of the most beautiful things that happened in her life, raising him was the hardest thing she had to endure. She often thought about how different her son might have been, if he grew up with a father figure like his brothers did. But the best this man could do for her was to pay her a hefty alimony. However, the man couldn't be there for the boy. His job was too complicated for him to be a father to anyone. He never actually struck her as the fatherly type, anyway. She sighed as she fixed the creases on her knee-high pale blue dress.

Suddenly, a slim suited man sat opposite of her. He was out of breath, like he ran the entire way over. She crossed her arms and looked at him crossly.

"My apologies, _ma chérie_. I 'ad to deal with an unwanted houseguest." He said in his strong French accent. Mrs. Stevenson signaled the waiter to serve them. She ordered two cups of espresso before sending him away. The waiter looked at the man wearing a balaclava and looked away arrogantly. The man Mrs. Stevenson was sitting with didn't seem to notice.

"Do you think it's smaht of you to wear that around here?" she asked in her slightly nasal accent. The man leaned forward to her.

"Don't worry, ze people here are too moronic to notice anything."

Mrs. Stevenson shrugged. Even the biggest idiot could tell that there was something wrong with the man wearing a balaclava and an expensive Italian suit. But she knew better than to ask.

The man reached deep into the inside of his jacket, and pulled out a small blue envelope. He casually slid it across the round table. The woman sighed, rubbing her forehead with the tip of her index finger.

"You know your kid is too old for alimony, right? He's 19 for God's sake."

"Don't consider this alimony _ma chérie. _Consider it… a donation."

Mrs. Stevenson frowned.

"A donation towards what?"

"Towards giving yourself a good life" he reached his hand across the table, touching hers. She quickly pulled it away.

"I don't want you to flaunt your money around like this."

The man looked deeply into her eyes.

"_S'il vous plait_," he spoke, the words coming from his mouth felt like a poem; "Please accept it, _ma chérie._ You know how hard eet can be not to have a job in this economy." He humbly bowed his head down. Mrs. Stevenson didn't pay any attention to him, and looked around the café instead.

"I really wish I could 'ave been zhere for the child. I cannot say how much I regret my profession getting in ze way."

Mrs. Stevenson knew the man too well to think he was telling the truth. But, at last, she sighed, looking at the envelope.

"I can find myself a job. But when I take this, do you promise not to send money again? You's beginning to make me feel uncomfortable."

The man bowed his head down once more, looking straight into her eyes.

"I promise."

Suddenly, a loud gunshot was heard, and the man fell on his chest on the table. Mrs. Stevenson took the envelope, looking around the coffeehouse in shock. She wasn't worried about this man, her French lover would know better than to let his guard down that easily. Another scream was heard, this time coming from a man in the back. In a rush of panic, while everyone was looking at the man in the back, holding a smoking gun and laying lifeless on the floor, a knife in his back, nobody noticed the waiter going out of the back exit. Nobody except Mrs. Stevenson. She quickly ran out of the crying crowd, and stepped out the back door. She continued her way into the dark, damp alley. The waiter who served her before was leaning against a wall of the building, smoking behind three dumpsters, overfilling with trash.

"I knew it was you," said Mrs. Stevenson jokingly; "I saw the way you were looking at me."

The mustached man kept quiet, taking another drag before throwing the cigarette into the dumpster.

"Nice work with the Dead Ringer. You might want to work on making a speedy exit. I was on to you. Luckily, I was the only one."

The waiter looked at her, not saying a word.

"Please promise that this is the last time you send me money." She took out her envelope, and began shaking it at him. At that point the waiter walked up to her, and put his hands on her face. He looked deep into her big beautiful eyes.

"I cannot promise that this will be the last time you see me, ma petite chou-fleur."

"Well then, please try and look after your money. I worry about you."

As she said that, the waiter gave her a long, tender kiss, much like the one they shared about twenty years ago on Champs- Élysées, _la plus belle avenue du monde._ When he left, she was still in a strange trance, and didn't notice that the man virtually evaporated into thin air. It took her about two minutes before she managed to grasp that he was gone. She turned on her heel and began walking home. The man is probably off to France by now. His monthly visits were cut shorter and shorter, much to her woe. But this was the life she ended up with. And now she's going back home. As she walked on the concrete, she wondered if her son finally got home after another baseball practice. She would really like it if he quit that silly thing…

* * *

Not much is known about the man who visited Mrs. Stevenson that day. However, as one might guess, he was a renowned international superspy, who preferred to buy himself a house under an alias, instead of booking a hotel room. However, apart from the many government organizations that hired him, Mrs. Stevenson and a couple of his closest enemies, few people knew of him, as a veil of mystery shrouding him was only comparable to the man's refined taste. The man was truly a puzzle, wrapped in an enigma, shrouded in riddles, lovingly sprinkled with intrigue, express mailed to Mystery, Alaska, and wrapped in a fine scarlet Italian suit. This man was so secretive; nobody even knew his real name. And, because of the long history of his profession, even his otherwise brilliant mind misplaced the name among 517 aliases he used for himself on his missions around the world, 3 secret organizations that hired him in his career, names of 18 government officials with a dodgy background that he uncovered, 32 lovers he had around the world, and the names of at least 7 illegitimate children he had with them. In short, not even he really knew who he was, tough he was capable of getting information concerning anyone and everyone else. But for the sake of the narrative, throughout the fiction, he will be referred to as by his 32nd alias, which he used in the legendary retrieval of Kicasso's "Rhyno at Bay" from his "Hunted In the Jungle" period: Adrien Chaput.

It was about 2 o'clock in the morning when Adrien finally walked in into his 500.000 penthouse on Champs- Élysées, the one place he could truly call home. Though he owned many estates around the world, this is the one he returned to after his trips. It was a liberation from his usual lifestyle consisting purely of finding evidence and promptly destroying it. He bought this home of his prior to the retrieval of the Kicasso painting, thinking that, if he fails the mission thanks to his dimwitted partner, he will at least have a decent place to sulk in. Though his partner turned out to be e treacherous devil, he managed to complete the mission on his own successfully, leaving his penthouse to be a decent place for him to return to.

He walked into the minimalistic white space he called his living room. He took out his cigarette case, taking one thin cigarette and lighting it. This day seemed to stretch out forever, and for now, he was glad that he's home. He glanced at the white marble counter in the modern kitchen, where he dropped his keys. He lifted his eyebrow when he saw what else was on there. One porcelain plate, dating from the 17th century, which he took with him as a souvenir after his trip to Sicily. One spice rack, filled with the finest spices money could possibly buy, all in alphabetical order. One large wooden spoon, the one object which Adrien found absolutely useful in his everyday life, though it clashed with everything else in his home, being white, black or red. Seven overdue bills, stacked neatly in a small pile, reminding him that money was tight. Two new ones were added to the pile, their grand total was somewhere around 15.000 $. He took a long drag and thought about his money problems. Though everything he owned was expensive and of high quality, he couldn't exactly afford everything he bought. One might think that an international agent like himself would be swimming in money. And he was, before he became an international little known sensation.

He dragged his feet across the white Persian carpet, and fell in his black leather lounge chair. His eyes were fixed on the large window, taking up almost the entire wall. Adrien sighed, running his hand across the dark armrest, before putting his elbow on it and propping his head up. In the window, he saw the dim, fuzzy reflections of himself and the interior of his living room, his grand piano on the left of the room, a wide square fireplace with a red brick foundation and the sliding see-through door leading to his kitchen. The truth about Adrien was that he was a hoarder. He didn't exactly go around buying everything he could. Instead, he only bought items he really needed, found practical, or satisfied his incredibly high criteria. But once he bought them, he never dared to sell them, throw them away, or forget about them. He found a use for every object he had, never even thinking about throwing it away. And when a better, more modern model came out, he would simply buy the new one. The old one would still have its own function, but would not be used as frequently.

Sadly, this little obsession of his with all things astonishing cost him a lot of money. And even though he had a lot of money at first, once he became a sensation, few people dared to hire him. Retrievals became too small of a task for a man of his reputation, and the more important missions, like intelligence obliteration, oddly didn't bring that much more money. So now, Adrien worked for practically the same amount of money, but had fewer missions to earn said money. Being a proud man above everything else, he continued to spend his money as he usually would. He even paid to support his lover in Boston.

Ah, yes. Mrs. Stevenson walked into his life holding his husband's hand, uninterestedly looking at one of the most beautiful avenues in the world. Her husband seemed to rush her through it, almost running through Paris while dragging her by her hand. What she didn't know was that her husband was on the lam, running from the police after he took part in money laundering and document forgery. He was too small of a task for a man such as Adrien to handle, but the man didn't interest him. He saw his beloved Stevenson, flashing him a ravishing look while running past a coffee shop where Adrien was drinking his Italian espresso while smoking his 4th cigarette that morning. As ashamed as he was to admit it, he was smitten. It took him four hours to find information on the man he saw for a mere second, hack into his database, and arrest the bastard. Thanks to Adrien, the man's original cash penalty turned into a twenty year prison sentence. All was fair in love and war, after all. And Mrs. Stevenson was his for the taking. He comforted her as she was crying over his husband's sentence. She seemed to be crying because she thought that she had to, not because she wanted to.

Maybe that's why he wanted a home on Champs- Élysées. It reminded him of that lovely April morning when he first saw her face…

_"Oh, bugger all…"_

The high pitched irritating voice was coming from his bedroom. He put out his cigarette in a small black ashtray and walked across the white room. As he opened the door slowly, he saw a maid. She hastily closed a drawer on Adrien's closet. She fixed her French maid's uniform.

_"__Bonjour, monsieur,"_ she said, batting her eyelashes at him, acting innocently. Adrien skeptically looked over the surface of his wide bed covered with an eggshell duvet. He ran his gloved finger across the surface of the white night stand, frowning upon seeing a thin layer of dust. He was an incredibly neat person, and little things like this irritated him.

"May I help you?" he asked in his best possible American accent. The girl seemed confused. _Seemed._ And then she began to stutter.

"Oh… zou ahre American, _non? Je m'appelle_ Zoe.I just came in here to clean. I was… how you say… sent here by ze landlord?"

Oddly enough, her English was better than some other French people Adrien spoke to.

"Was that you just now, saying "bugger all"?" he asked, trying to articulate the idiom correctly. He switched on a small lamp on the nightstand, letting more light in the room. The girl smiled in thanks.

"Oh…" she giggled softly; "I just picked zat word up. I am not even sure what it means." She smiled, looking at her feet. "I will just finish up here, and I am on my way."

"There is no need to rush. Take your time," he put his hands together, making a slight turn.

"If you need to carefully look through my humble abode to find something else to clean, be my guest. You never know when you might find something…" he reached into his jacket and pulled out a butterfly knife, feeling an expected disturbance in the air.

"…unexpected," he finished, throwing his knife at the girl's hand without looking. Much to his glee, he knocked out a dagger out of the girl's hand. She squeaked as the sharp cold metal knocked the knife out of her hand. The butterfly knife whooshed past her again, returning to the man like a boomerang. He caught if skillfully, looking straight at the bemused girl as he placed it back into his jacket.

"Oh…_monsieur…"_ she stuttered; "Zat was in your drawer, I didn't think…"

"You are really getting sloppy, aren't you, Zoe? Or should I say, Nicole? Or whatever name you go by these days?" he looked deep into her green eyes, now burning with anger. Only one person in the world would be foolish enough to attack at the first chance she gets. She let out a wry smile.

"Very clever, Adrien," she said in her now posh British accent. She pressed a small button on her green medallion hanging from her neck. As she pressed it, a loud beep was heard, and her body seemed to crack in half. Layer by layer, her skin, hair and clothing seemed to disappear, pulling themselves into a small gap in the back of her head. And with every thread that pulled back, a new one would appear. The woman now standing before him was an old colleague he worked with in the Kicasso retrieval. Ever since he stopped her from stealing the painting for the London National Gallery, she has been his worst nemesis.

The woman was dressed in a tight leather suit, covering almost every inch of her body. She wore high leather combat boots, with metal spikes on the rim. Her hands were bandaged and covered in blood; she must've killed someone on her way here. The woman was incredibly thin, short and had short red hair, making her look like a boy. A green medallion with a golden web around it dangled from her pale white neck. One of her eyes was brown; the other was covered with a green eye patch. That wasn't the only body part that she was missing. She was also missing a hand and a heart. Her left hand was a robotic one, able to do everything a regular hand does, but with far less grace. This girl was the ultimate bad spy girl stereotype.

Leather suit? Check.

Body parts missing? Check.

Accent? Check.

Gadgets? Check.

A sex pun of a name?

"I can't believe you honestly thought that cheap old Murphy bed trick would hold me off for long. I thought you know ol' Honey Pie better than that."

Regretful check.

"Honey Pie. What a foul surprise. Trying to steal something else from this _magnifique_ land, I see."

Honey gave out a wry smile, wiping off some sweat from her forehead.

"Adrien Chaput. Good to see you ol' chap. Been a while since I heard from you on the spy scene. What's the matter? None of your three organizations need you?" she leaned over, mocking him. Adrien shook his head.

"_Non,_ _ma châtiment_. It merely meens zat I have done such a good job duing my previous missions, zat my impeccable work won't be needed anymore."

"Is that so?" she chuckled; "No business at all?"

"What are you doing here, Honey?" he asked while crossing his arms. Honey Pie walked idly past him, and onto his living room. He followed her slowly, monitoring her every move.

"Can't a lady visit her old colleague for old time's sake?" she ran her thin finger over the marble countertop, giving an impressed grin upon seeing that there was no dust on it. In fact, the entire place was almost spotless. She hated it.

"How did you get in here, anyway?"

"I have my ways, darling," she casually looked at her grayish watch with a burgundy case, with a couple of small grey buttons. It didn't seem to display time. Adrien looked around his apartment. Everything seemed to be in order. Whatever she was looking for wasn't in his living room. He narrowed his eyes as she opened the window in the room, letting in a gush of cold air. She laughed at something.

"Your apartment is decorated quite tastefully, darling. You surprise me," she looked back at him; "That cheap old apartment you have in Boston was the most disgusting thing I've ever seen. A Murphy bed, of all things? I thought you had class."

"Says the person who managed to get stuck in it," he grinned at her, waiting for a response; "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Her back was turned. He could've stabbed her, right there. But between Honey and him, this bickering turned into a game of cat and mouse. A cat plays a bit with its prey, doesn't eat it whole immediately. It plays with it, smacks it around, laughs at its attempts to escape. The mouse then dies of exhaustion. Only then can the cat eat it, usually swallowing him head first, leaving no evidence of the mouse's existence behind.

Adrien considered himself to be the cat. And what he stared at was a despicable irritating mouse, who he was toying with for the past three years. Granted this was a clever mouse, but the cat always has the upper hand. He stared at Honey's back, while a strange thought crept across his mind.

"What exactly were you planning to steal from me, _ma châtiment?"_

_"Steal!?"_ She turned to him, clutching her chest in faux shock. "I would never!"

"Regardless," he interrupted her; "here you are, rummaging through my possessions. And, as memory serves, you 'aven't exactly been very active in the espionage business yourself, lately," he opened his eyes in disbelief, and realization;

"You 'ave been robbing me, weren't you?"

"I would never!" she stood up straight, only to drop her head. "There is nothing to steal. You are as broke as I am."

"Oh, I am hardly broke, _ma châtiment_. I just 'appen to own many estates around the globe. Every single object in this room costs more than you probably make in a month."

"Is that so? So, I guess the fact all you have in your refrigerator is an union and some moldy cheese doesn't mean anything?"

Adrien lifted his nose snootily; "You clearly know nothing of fine cuisine. Ze best cheese is ze "_moldy"_ kind."

"I highly doubt that applies to Gouda, darling," she smirked.

"Nevertheless, you were robbing me, _ma châtiment_. Zat, right there, is an offence."

Before he could say anything else, Honey jumped at him, striking her right leg towards him. Anticipating the attack, Adrien jumped to the side, burying his face in the bright white carpet. The one thing he heard was the shattering of his fine china as Honey gracelessly flew into it. This made him angry. Adrien never liked to fight ladies, but this creature was not in any way, shape or form a lady. He ran up to her, punching her in the throat. He clenched his fingers around it, making her gasp for air. A small sadistic look flew over his face; he really missed this kind of rampage. At that moment, Honey kicked him in the stomach, making him fly to his china cabinet, shattering what was left of it. Taken by the impact, his body plummeted to the floor. Honey rubbed her sore throat for barely a second before grabbing the collar of his suit. She picked him up and smashed his head against the grand piano with a roar. As Adrien began to see small red spots on the white and black keys, playing a short, painful tune with every strike, all he could think about was that his piano needed tuning.

"You really are brutes in England, aren't you?" he managed between smashes.

"Tell it to the Queen!" she continued to bash his head, though at this point, he didn't feel pain, only anger and slight discomfort.

"I wasn't robbing you! There is nothing to rob! You are broke as hell," her words came out between powerful strikes, Adrien's blood trickling from his nose. "Everything here is about as cheap as your suit!"

"Cheap? Cheap!?" Adrien freed himself from her grasp, punching her straight in the jaw. He looked around his jacket desperately. He needed a weapon. He needed…

"Looking for this?" she was lying on the floor, staining it with her blood. She was pointing a revolver at him, the one he took from her before. He looked at her defenselessly, his knuckles bleeding through his dark gloves.

"Tell you what, love; I give you the gun, and you give me that fancy lil' cigarette case your ol' buddy Pascal got you."

Adrien laughed at the thought of trading a classified special issue disguise kit, reserved for only the finest of spies, in exchange for a meaningless revolver. He laughed in her face.

"Suit yourself. I'll have it either way," she pulled the trigger, expecting a bang. But something was off. She pressed the trigger a few more times before finally managing to comprehend that it wasn't loaded.

"Looking for these?" Adrien mocked, holding a single bullet in his gloved hand. Honey frowned.

"You clever devil…"

As she said that, Adrien grabbed his butterfly knife, and swung his arm to stab Honey with a grunt. Honey pressed something on her watch. A loud, buzzing noise was heard, before she disappeared. Adrien ended up lunging his knife in the floorboards, missing Honey completely. He pulled out the knife, regretting that he just ruined his carpet. But now he was looking around. Honey was invisible. She could be anywhere. She could be loading the revolver she took from him. She could be doing something else entirely. His heart started pounding…

That watch of hers was given to her by a brilliant scientist down at her secret branch. He wanted that watch as much as she wanted his disguise kit. Her masks were alright, but his disguise kit was almost perfection. He suddenly felt a rush of cold air as she appeared before him. He turned around. Honey now had a sharp shard of glass between her fingers. He kicked it out of her hand, leaving her to clutch it painfully.

"That hurt, froggie!" she spewed.

"Tell eet to ze Queen," he imitated her before preparing his knife to stab her. Impulsively, Honey looked for an exit. She rushed towards the open window, jumping out of it. She closed her eyes and felt the cold Parisian air on her face. The stream of air stopped, and she felt a grip on her wrist. Upon closer observation, she saw that Adrien held her dangling up.

"Leaving so soon, _ma châtiment_? I will miss these little fights of ours…"

"Put me down this instant, you buffoon!"

Adrien shrugged.

"_Comme tu veux."_

Honey felt a relief as Adrien released her wrist. She continued to fall, down the tall luxury building, falling down those ten floors below. Who knows what went through her mind as she fell down the tall white brick building, one of the stupider escape routes she made...

"_Oh, bugger all..."_

Adrien didn't care about the girl anymore. He didn't care if she fell on her head or plopped in the rubbish bin safely. But he knew that, for some reason, she will survive. She always survives.

Adrien dusted off his hands, pleased with the way the conflict worked itself out. He then looked at the state of his apartment. His expensive china was smashed, his grand piano covered with blood. The carpet looked like some abstract painting and his suit… dear God, his beautiful, expensive suit!

Repairing all this would take days, weeks even. It would also take a lot of money that Adrien didn't have. He plopped back into his lounging chair, burying his face in his palms. He had to accept it. He may have lived like a millionaire, but he was broke. He needed a mission, an assignment, a job. And he needed it now…

* * *

Deep in the Parisian underground, there is a secret location well hidden from the common folk. A single elevator goes down there, hidden in one telephone booth with black tinted windows. The booth was located near the Arc de Triopmhe, close to Adrien's abode. It was a gloomy late summer morning in Paris. Everything seemed a tad more grayish than usually. Adrien walked through the dark green grass, waving in the wind. As always, he wore a mask. His disguise kit came in handy almost every day. A refined international spy couldn't risk exposing his face, and walking with a balaclava in the middle of the city, no matter how cold it may be that day, will raise some eyebrows.

He walked by a crepe stand, taking a deep inhale as the soft scent of baked goods and fine chocolate flew through the air. What he wouldn't give for one right now. But this was a tough time for him. With the bills due, and with his constant insisting that he gives Mrs. Stevenson her monthly alimony check, there was little room for luxury. He clutched his grumbling stomach, and walked into the red telephone booth.

It functioned as a normal booth in every way. But only members of the French Secret Service knew that this functioned as a passageway. When Adrien was completely sure that nobody saw him walk in, he input the twenty digit code.

_And hashtag. Don't forget the hashtag. _

He crossed his arms and braced for the ride. The floor opened from under him, without any warning. Exactly twenty five years ago, when he first came in this little _hellevator_, he struggled to input the pass code correctly. After the seventh try, he succeeded. He wondered what was going to happen next, when he found himself falling down a tube at 60 mph, then falling into a swirling tube. The whole "trip" lasts for 9 and a half seconds, but it was enough for his life to flash before his eyes. But with time comes experience, so by now, Adrien anticipated every single swerve, landing on his feet without so much as a bend at the end.

He looked around the small metal hallway, which echoed as he walked in it. It was impeccably sterile, much like everything else. At the very end, there were a series of dials and scanners near a large titanium door. Adrien walked up to the first scanner, taking off his mask and scanning his retina. After that, he input the pass code again.

_Don't forget the hashtag. _

When he did so, the large door opened with seven loud clicks. The giant bulky door parted itself in the middle, going painfully slow. Adrien already managed to see the inside of the laboratory. It was a giant room with dark red tiles, some plane prototypes hanging from the surprisingly high ceiling, and a couple of testing chambers in the back. A muffled explosion was heard from the occasionally. A man waved towards Adrien. He was a man in his late 40s, with thick salt and pepper hair and small grey eyes. He had small circular glasses and was wearing a lab coat. He was Adrien's mentor, and the head scientist who worked on creating the disguise kit.

In 1959, the British and the French were both racing in making the world's first DNA modifier, which could be used in espionage. The British made the model first, which could only hold the data for three DNA codes. The French improved model could hold up to 10.000 original codes, and was more elegant. While the French Secret Service took pride in its unique invention, the British made a cloaking device. The war on gadgets reigned ever since.

The older man called Adrien over, and gestured to the large file he clutched in his hand. This could mean only one thing; he got Adrien another mission.

"Come here, Agent 003!" he called him over, and Adrien walked up to him slowly, trying to refrain from showing too much enthusiasm.

"Professor Pascal. It's good to see you again."

Pascal propped up his glasses on the bridge of his nose and gestured to Adrien, signaling him to follow him in the testing chambers. They were smaller concrete cubicles, their walls slightly cracking due to frequent experimentations with explosive material.

"I suppose you have another mission for me, Pascal."

"Quite." Pascal said in his clumsy French. He was of Irish origin, coming to France at the age of 15. He often butchered the language, which irritated Adrien to no end. However, as long as this man got him the tasks that were his bread and butter, he couldn't complain.

"I must warn you though, Agent 003. This mission you are about to take part in is extremely… different… from the ones you might have already had. There is a possibility of you refusing," he said to him, slowly opening the large file.

Adrien thought that he was joking. One mission, no matter how much more "different" it was, would not be something he would refuse. Especially now when money was tight. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his disguise kit, taking out one thin cigarette. He carefully placed it in his mouth, lighting it.

"You know Pascal," he started; "yesterday I was out of town, visiting a friend. On my way back to Paris, while I was at the airport, I remembered to check if I still had my plane ticket. I kept it in my wallet, for safe keeping." Adrien blew out some smoke, and Pascal was carefully listening to him, occasionally nodding his head, but not making a sound.

"So, I open my dark leather wallet and remove the ticket from it. And then, suddenly, I saw it. It was a completely dark inlay of my wallet, made from silk. It looked like a dream, such perfection inside of virtual nothingness. I ran my finger through it, and it felt as smooth as it did the day I first bought it. It was such exquisite emptiness, yet it had so much dept once you take a closer look at it."

Pascal was blinking at him, not grasping a single word.

"What does that mean?"

Adrien looked at him, a frown on his face.

"It means that my wallet was completely empty. I'm broke, Pascal! I don't care what the mission is, as long as it pays I need to have it!" he smacked his clenched fist against his palm with each word.

"It pays, Adrien. In fact, it pays quite well." Pascal grinned at him.

"Then why are we still talking?"

"It's a job in America," he said, examining his folder.

"Alright…"

"It's for a longer period of time, field work in a desert in New Mexico, for an organization called "Team Fortress Industries"."

"Never heard of them," said Adrien, tossing his cigarette on the floor. He could be quite a messy person when not in his home. "But go on."

"Well, here's the thing. You need to get there as soon as possible…"

"Good. I'll be seeing you, Professor," Adrien attempted to grab the file greedily. Pascal slapped his wrist.

"As soon as possible…" he looked at him crossly before continuing; "…but the position was offered to another agent. From another organization."

"…Excuse me, Pascal, but does this employer want us to _race_?" Adrien's ticked his head to the side.

"Exactly, Sir. So I understand if you think that this is unprofessional and…"

"Give me that!" Adrien snatched the file. It held a complete, detailed description of the job. Field work in a military group, in Badlands, New Mexico. He was supposed to be a Spy, retrieving information from another team in the same organization. The two teams were very similar. The position was for a Spy in the RED team. Adrien flipped through the pages. Everything _seemed _to be in order… Maybe a race wouldn't be such a bad idea.

"Who is the other candidate?"

"Well, uh…" Pascal muttered; "The other is an agent that used to work for us. She was agent 006, but it doesn't ring a bell…"

It rang Adrien's bell. Of course _she _was the other candidate. Dumb as a brick, yet she was one of the better agents out there.

"Honey."

Adrien growled and looked straight at Pascal.

"So, do I get any special equipment for this mission? I'm going to need some speed to get to New Mexico in time…" Adrien looked at the plane prototypes hanging from the ceiling. Instead, he was given a small box.

"What is this?" he examined it, not trying to hide his disappointment. It looked like a bulky radio, with the words _Electro-Sapper_ written on it.

"That, my friend, is a sapping device. It's capable of destroying any piece of technology in a matter of seconds. It's a risk having it here, so I'm giving it to you. I'm sure you'll find some use for it…"

Adrien was nervously picking at the dial. For such an advanced piece of technology, it looked very insignificant. Not the best thing he could've gotten from this brilliant man.

"Anything else?" he almost pleaded; "Any exploding pens? Any vehicles? Any more advanced weaponry?"

Pascal shook his head.

"You should've read the fine print. You are to be provided with only two gadgets, and you have to provide your own mean of transportation. At least, according to your hopeful employer."

Adrien didn't know how to react to this. He had a sapper and a disguise kit. Honey Pie could've had her cloaking device and God knows what. Hell, if he wasn't so desperate for money he would turn the ridiculous offer down in a snap.

"However…" Pascal started. He pressed a small button on the wall. The floor seemed to move. A large square was missing on the ground, and was replaced by a gaping hole. Adrien didn't know what was going on. But he did see something rise from it. Was that… was that a car?

A black Pontiac Firebird raised itself up from the gaping hole. Pascal smiled at Adrien's surprised expression. It was a convertible, and the sexiest one any man has ever seen. Adrien knew about this car, thought to be the finest car of 1968. He looked at its sleek, sexy curves. It was extremely aerodynamic. It went from 0 to 60 in 5.5 seconds. This particular model cost roughly 15.000 $. This was a true muscle car if Adrien ever saw one. And it was his… It was completely his.

"What your employer doesn't know, won't hurt her," winked Pascal to his bemused younger colleague; "Now get going! That British tart is probably off by now!"

As Adrien got into the comfortable beige seats and started the engine, hearing it purr like a kitten, he couldn't help but to wonder why Pascal hadn't given him one of those prototype airplanes idly hanging above them. At that moment, he heard a loud explosion from one of the testing chamber compartments. And then he knew...


	13. Live and Let Spy

**Author's note:** Well, here it is. The typical action sequence worthy of an older, cheezier Bond movie. Tried to make it as ridiculous as possible, so if you roll your eyes and delete this from your favorites/ follows, my work here is done.

**Pootis claimer here!**

* * *

Honey was rushing through the streets of Paris, trying to get to a small club near the airport. She needed this job more than she could imagine. She didn't have a mission in over three months. Team Fortress was a strange organization, she had her doubts about going there. But when she found out that Adrien would be her competitor in getting the job she needed so badly, she quickly ran out of her building with her cloaking device, her file under her arm, and a case full of attachments for her mechanical arm. She whooshed by a couple of pedestrians, squinting. She couldn't really drive with one eye, so she would just rely on the others to stay on their toes.

Honey Pie was driving a taxi she stole from some unsuspecting man during his break. He was now bound and gagged in the back seat.

"Shut up, I'm bloody concentrating!" yelled Honey at the mumbling man, speaking through the green handkerchief while plopping around the seat. His terrible mumbling just made Honey miss her turn. This was not good. Not good at all.

"If you keep quiet for five minutes, I will let you live, froggie," she spewed at the taxi driver. Just about half an hour to the airport. Can't this clunker go any faster?

She had to hit the brakes as a sexy looking muscle car drove in front of her. He made a sharp turn and continued to go forward. He was going faster than she did, but it was more precise. Honey blinked in wonder. Her blinking was slightly more like winking, because of her cycloptical appearance. She fixed her eye patch and stepped on the gas pedal. The old tires screeched under her. Nobody was cutting her off!

The taxi almost hit a woman carrying a couple of potted plants from her floral shop. The potted lily of the valley crashed through the driver's window, making it webby and hard to see through.

"Damn it!" Honey screamed and punched the glass with her robotic arm. She felt nothing as the glass shards stuck in it. The gagged driver almost cried. Honey turned sharply to the left, avoiding a tree. No police officers were out today, so it seemed.

"Damn frenchies!"

The taxi came over to the muscle car, and the two drivers were face to face. The man driving the muscle car made no effort to retain his speed, but the taxi struggled. As they looked at each other, fury spewed out of their eyes.

"Adrien! You are not seriously thinking of getting the job, are you?! If you do, you are sadly mistaken, darling!" she yelled to match the loudness off their motors and the pedestrians' screaming. Adrien smiled and pressed the gas pedal. It left Honey swerving in circles.

"Right. No more little miss nice spy." With one hand on the wheel, she clicked open a red briefcase on the other seat. There they were: ten attachments for her mechanical arm, all in their own special imprinted place. She grabbed the one particular attachment, with an ending resembling a barrel. She turned to the taxi driver.

"If I untie you for two minutes, do you promise not to be a little whiney bitch?"

The poor man nodded, not wanting anything else to happen to his car.

* * *

Adrien was laughing at how easy it was to outdrive his old rival. She could be so comical sometimes. If he continues driving at this pace, he could get to the airport in no time. He will certainly get the job. And then he will be able to pay off his bills, and continue giving his _petite __chou-fleur_ the money to live a comfortable life, the sort she never had with her husband. He wanted her to be happy more than anything. A smile crept over his face, only to be replaced with a panicky gaze, sweat drops forming under his balaclava.

Provided he gets there in time, how will he afford to get on the plane? He can't afford anything. He couldn't trade top secret gadgets which he found useless for a one way ticket to New Mexico, could he? And even if he could, imagine the sheer horror of being on the same plane as Honey Pie. He shook his head in disbelief for his stupidity. Surely Honey wouldn't fly commercial. As well as he knew her, the woman had an ace up her sleeve. And as far as she's concerned, so does he.

He suddenly felt a loud pop under him. The car seemed to lower itself slightly, and it went slower than before. No matter how hard Adrien pushed down the pedal, it wouldn't accelerate.

"_Qu'est-ce que ça peut bien faire?!"_ he shrieked in shock. As he turned around, he saw something strangely expected. It was Honey, leaning over a poor taxi driver, unbound but still gagged, driving the piece of scrap of a taxi cab. She stuck her arm out, the grayish metal attachment pointed at Adrien's tires. A small pellet flew out of the long metal tube at the top of it. It landed close to the other tire, missing it by barely an inch. Honey was laughing at Adrien's bemused expression.

"Hold still, darling, I can't get a close shot!" she commanded, smacking the cab driver while instructing him to go faster. The driver complied, mumbling through the handkerchief. She fired multiple shots at Adrien's vehicle. The Frenchmen cursed through his teeth while making a sharp turn to avoid her. Arm attachments that doubled as lethal weapons. So that's what Honey got as her second gadget.

The back window shattered, which caused Adrien to flinch. His flattening tire was slowing him down significantly, and Honey was coming closer still. He heard her annoying voice.

"Drive faster, you imbecile!"

Though the taxi was driving speedily, the taxi driver seemed too careful while he drove it. Honey was getting tired of this. She kicked open the door and yelled at the man;

"You are useless! Get out!"

The poor man jumped out of the moving vehicle and rolled on the crumpling road. A few pedestrians ran into their houses, screaming in horror. The taxi driver clenched his fist and untied the green handkerchief around his mouth. He used it to cover his bleeding wound on his broken arm. He watched Honey drive out carelessly with his beloved vehicle, the door still wide open, and still shooting at the Frenchman.

"_Merde!" _Adrien shouted as another pellet hit his vehicle. Those shots were getting more frequent as time went by, and Honey was now at his tail. She had one hand on the wheel, and her mutant pistol-like hand pointed at Adrien at all times. The pellets damaged the car and the windows, but couldn't quite get to him.

As yet another pellet ricocheted against the muscle car and flew straight for her, Honey realized that bullets weren't meant to go through metal. She yanked the attachment and tossed it in the passenger's seat, leaning her stump of an arm to rest on the wheel. She grabbed it with her other hand, making a sharp turn to the Firebird. She tried to bump him off the road.

"You idiot woman! Ahre you trying to kill yourself?!" Adrien shouted at her. Honey didn't seem to hear him, as she ran herself into his side again. Adrien accelerated lightly more, knowing that shooting back would be useless. Or would it?

Before either one of them could answer that question, they saw a man walking across the road. The man was Antoine Boutin. He was going to do some last minute shopping at the local grocery store, as his wife Ophelia, who was eight months pregnant, craved ice-cream and chocolate. The innocent man was oblivious to the two spies trying to race to the airport. He was halfway across the road when the two special agents appeared out of nowhere.

Trying to protect the innocent by-stander, Adrien turned sharply to the left, running into a yellow Chevrolet. Honey was not so careful with civilians. Antoine's wife never got her ice-cream.

"I knew you didn't have the guts for this job, darling!" Honey mocked him as her tires screeched on the dark road, Antoine's glasses breaking under them.

Adrien got out of his car and contemplated the situation at hand. The expensive Pontiac was now completely ruined, and squished in somewhat of a Pontiac-Chevy sandwich. The driver in the Chevy was unconscious. Many people ran from the streets and into their homes, terrified. An ambulance was heard in the distance, the loud, deafening tone coming closer. His rival was about to get his job that was supposed to save him from bankruptcy. Everything was ruined. At that moment, Adrien did what he thought was best; he smoked. He lit up a thin, elegant cigarette and took a drag. Life was… _merde_.

"You are trying to get to the airport before that woman?"

As Adrien looked behind him, he saw the taxi driver Honey kicked out. He was clutching his bleeding arm, and staggered to him. This man had a strange, fuming expression on his face, his nostrils flaring and his voice croaked from trying to regain his composure.

"Any ideas?" asked Adrien, flicking away the ashes.

The ambulance was approaching them, its bright blue light illuminating the taxi driver's face.

"Just one." The taxi driver pretended to faint when the ambulance car got closer.

* * *

After one amazing decision made by a humble cab driver with a bleeding wound and raging anger, Adrien found himself right where he wanted. Provided that it wasn't the most elegant way to get to his destination, it was the fastest, without a doubt. Just five minutes after this race seemed like a lost cause, Adrien found himself driving the ambulance vehicle, a paramedic he chose as his victim lying near the taxi driver clutching his arm.

"I can't believe you can kill someone instantly just by sticking a knife in his back. It sounds too good to be true."

"You just need to know where to strike," shrugged Adrien, looking at the road. Why hasn't he thought of this before? No traffic, no stop lights, the entire world parts as the Red Sea to let him cross… It was amazing. The taxi driver carefully pulled out the butterfly knife out of the paramedic's back. The man had a strange burning passion to assist Adrien, if that meant giving hell to the woman who wrecked his car and left him to die on the road.

"It isn't exactly a Pontiac, but it gets the job done, don't you think?"

Adrien looked out of the window. He saw a woman in a banged up taxi cab, singing at the top of her lungs with joy. He went straight past her, trying not to laugh at her manically.

"I must say, my friend, this has been an excellent idea."

The taxi driver handed Adrien his butterfly knife.

"Hey. Give her hell." Adrien nodded at him.

The airport was nearby. Now all he had to do was think; if he was a deranged British special agent desperate for a job, where would he go?

* * *

_"Oldfinger's harem" _was an elite club, let by Oldfinger, a retired Navy officer linked with the mafia. It was located about 20 miles west of the airport, in a deep forest. The club members consisted mostly of old rich businessmen, looking for some relaxation. This particular building was circle, the words _"Oldfinger's harem" _written in cursive, neon letters on the pointy roof. The interior was decorated in a manner of traditional Bedouin tents. From the great Ottomans in the seating area, to the colorful Turkish carpet in the centre. A couple of belly dancers swerved around the men in the smoky interior, the golden ducats jiggling from their lean arms and hips as they moved them to the rhythm of the music. Oldfinger was smoking a hookah pipe, ogling the girls and laughing with some Turks he befriended recently. A young girl served them strong Turkish coffee.

A rush of bright light went in, as Honey smashed the door open. The attendants, though bemused, didn't seem to budge too much.

"You have arrived," Oldfinger took off one ring off his short, stubby fingers. Honey nodded once, taking off the medallion from her neck. She tossed it in front of him. Some girls leaned over to watch the green piece of jewelry.

"And you have brought the item I was looking for."

"That's right, chub-chub. Now where is the jet you promised me?" she growled. Oldfinger smiled at her, taking another drag from his hookah pipe.

"Easy there, girlie," he showed her his blackened teeth from years of tobacco abuse; "you know the condition. You have one jet. You take me on it. And one of my girls."

"Why would I want to bring one of your bimbos, anyway?" she looked at the wide sabers, their sharp ends sparkling in the somewhat dim light. Honey gulped.

"They keep me company, girlie," said the man. The Turks chuckled at the angry looking British girl.

"Look, I got you what you wanted. Just get me to New Mexico, I don't bleeding care how."

Oldfinger pointed at one girl in particular. She was one of the more "exposed" girls in the club. Her smooth, flat stomach moved slowly in circles, her arms stretched out above her head. A veil covered her mouth and nose, and her eyes were closed. The Turks looked at the young girl, their mouths wide open.

"That over there is Ashleea. She is one of my favorite girls. She is from Barbados, you know? I took her in when her father joined my organization," he turned to the unimpressed Brit; "I want her to come with us."

Honey shook her head in frustration. She didn't want this girl on her plane, and yet…

"If I say yes, do we finally get to go?"

The man nodded, and with much effort, managed to stand up on his feet. He sighed and scratched his nose.

"I will give Ashleea one minute to get ready," he said, taking a cup of strong coffee and drinking it. He then escorted Honey an old abandoned airport hangar. He kept his beauty there.

The hangar itself looked much like a garage. The heavy metal door lifted when he clapped. A small jet was inside. It was half the size of a normal airplane, and much more narrow. It could hold up to 6 people, provided that they were all anorexic, Honey guessed. The thing was completely painted gold. Honey never liked gold. She managed to get over this problem when she heard that it went over 2.800 mph.

"What do you think?" asked Oldfinger gazing upon his baby. Honey cracked her neck to one side, trying to get over the fact that she traded a top secret British piece of cloaking technology for a jet rent. She walked up to the ugly thing.

"It will have to do."

* * *

Oldfinger and Honey waited for Ashleea for five minutes. After that, Oldfinger gave her a lecture how that was "unacceptable", but he "couldn't stay mad at her". After he was finally done, the three got in. Honey was anxious to go, and jumped in the pilot's seat. Ashleea and Oldfinger sat in the back on a metal bench. They fastened their harnesses tightly. Honey looked around the jet; it was extremely dark, and surprisingly modestly decorated once you were inside. Two metal benches; a stack of parachutes, a medicine cabinet, and one fat old man casually putting his chubby hand on the young girl's thigh. Honey huffed and started the plane. Hopefully she still knew how to fly it.

Once the jet jumped in the air, Honey thought that her ears were going to explode. She never felt such acceleration. Oldfinger laughed at her pained expression, occasionally looking over to Ashleea. The girl seemed uncomfortable, but that's about it. Strangely enough, once they were up and flying steadily in the air, Honey didn't seem to mind the speed. She put the jet on autopilot, and began to study the file she was provided with. She wanted to know everything about this mission, and everything about her employer. Oddly enough, there wasn't that much about her.

She really needed this job. She has been unemployed for weeks and forced to move in with her mother. If she had to hear one more story about how she's not married, she would kill somebody. This job will be the answer to her prayers, she thought. Soon. Soon she will be free from her dept. Soon she will be free from all those money troubles that kept her up at night. Adrien thought he has it tough. Well Adrien at least had a penthouse to cry in.

Ashleea walked up to Honey and sat next to her. She stared at Honey's file. The Brit huffed.

"This is none of your concern. I have a lot of things on my mind right now. Would you please be so kind to go away?"

The young girl looked at her, puzzled.

"What? What do you want from me?" she was getting irritated, but the girl remained quiet, looking innocently at the woman screaming at her.

"What!? What do you want!?" she closed the file shut. The girl shrugged.

"Nothing, _ma châtiment."_

Honey Pie looked at her, with fear in her eyes. What… what did she just call her? She looked at the bench, and saw Oldfinger lying flat on the floor, a bleeding wound in his back.

"You… Adrien?"

Just then, Adrien appeared before her, taking off his mask. Ashleea put up a hell of a fight before he terminated her. The girl could swordfight quite well. However, she was no match for him… or his revolver, for that matter. In the end, the whole fight lasted two minutes; a bit too long for Adrien's taste. The paper mask fell in front of Honey's knees. Only one thing came to mind as she saw the girl's frilly garment disappear off him.

"You… but… Oldfinger… " she stuttered.

"A man does things 'ee's not proud of to protect his employment."

It wasn't clear who was disgusted more at that point.

"How did you get in Oldfinger's without me bloody noticing?"

"I disguised myself as the man in the back. When I found out that Oldfinger was taking with you I used my trusty disguise kit," he ticked his head to the side; "You know, you really are getting sloppy, Honey."

Honey clenched her fists and reached out her arm. On it was another metal attachment, a small Swiss army knife. Those little spare parts of hers came in handy more often than one would expect. She jerked her hand toward him, attempting to stab him in the throat. Adrien Chaput ran to the side, getting behind her. He pressed her head against the cold steel of the jet whooshing 2000 mph. He pressed her against it tightly, bruising her neck and right shoulder.

"You have much to learn about espionage, _ma châtiment_. You need to recognize your enemies," he pressed her harder, making her squeal. He took out his butterfly knife and pressed the steel against her back; "I am ashamed to think that we ahre running for the same position. Well, not for long…"

Just as he was about to stab her in the back, Honey hit him in the ribcage with her elbow. He gasped and fell on the ground, trying to breathe normally again. When he looked up, he saw a big shiny suitcase where Honey kept her arm add-ons. And he saw it as Honey struck him against the head with it. While he was on the ground, she kept hitting him repeatedly. He responded by sticking his butterfly knife in her shin. To his surprise, she didn't react.

"Nice try, frenchie! These boots are titanium coated," she said, striking him yet again. He wondered if the French Secret Service could provide him with titanium coated boots.

"Damn it!" she yelled at him, unexpectedly. She picked him up and threw him against the control board, making the plain shake. Shaken by this turbulence, Adrien fell to the floor. He now felt a barell of a gun pressed against his head.

"Who has the upper hand now, huh? You think you're so tough, taking people from behind?" she slowly lowered herself, kneeling before him; "Real men face their enemies face forward."

Adrien looked at the hollow barrel, wondering if this is how he was going to meet his end. He had no greater regrets. He listened to the beeping noise the jet occasionally omitted. He smiled at his nemesis, who was now growing extremely irritated.

"You aren't getting this job," she grinded her yellowish teeth; "You aren't getting it as long as I'm around, darling."

"And I suppose they would give the job to you? A B class Spy who got fooled by a paper mask? Twice? I hardly doubt it."

"You know, it's strange. I thought the two zeros in _003_ gave a lisence to kill, not a lisence to get killed."

Adrien Chaput was now grinning at her fiendishly. He shook his head and looked at his suit. Strangely enough, it was intact. Though he really shouldn't be kneeling in this dusty jet. He couldn't afford dry-cleaning.

"Is that the best you can come up with? That is a silly response, even for you."

Honey Pie was now clearly furious about something. She pushed the gun closer against his head.

"Damn it, Chaput! Why are you so calm?! Face it, it's over! Your career is over, your life is over, you will never see another cent, and here you are, cackling!" Her voice suddenly turned softer, and she flashed him a small grin.

"That little lady you have in Boston… Stevenson? You will never see her again. You will never send her another penny again. You will never meet the kid and she will always think of you as a disappointment!" she screamed in his face.

"Why don't you just bloody give up?!"

Though these words might have made Adrien angry, he found it best that he doesn't show emotion.

"Do you expect me to give up?"

"No, mister Chaput," she frowned; "I expect you to die."

At that moment the plane shook with enough force to toss over the deceased Oldfinger lying on the floor. Red lights flashed against the control board, and they were losing altitude fast. Honey looked at the control board, dropping her gun in shock. On it was a small radio resembling thing, which made the airplane jitter. Sparks flew from the mainframe, and the engine hissed in protest. Honey had no idea what was happening. She kept pressing random buttons, but the steely construction shook so vigorously it seemed like it was going to break.

"What… what have you done you French twat?!" she screamed in panic. Adrien smiled at her, wiping off some blood running down his chin.

"Frenchie's sapping my airplane!"

She managed to kick off the gadget causing so much trouble, but the plane was still in bad shape.

"You imbecile!" she screamed, trying to remedy the situation by cooling off the engine; "We're going to die!"

"Correction, _ma châtiment. _It ees you who is going to die."

The Frenchman opened the door of the jet. A rush of wind flew in, making Honey squint. She managed to see that the Frenchman held five parachutes in his hands, and put the sixth on himself. She opened her mouth to protest, but he had already jumped out. She saw the parachute open over a large desert wasteland in New Mexico. Adrien Chaput soared to safety, a parachute with a French flag motive descending him to safety.

"Curse you, Chaput! I will see you in hell!" she screamed at him, shaking her fist furiously. The plane continued to accelerate, and was closer to crashing. Honey was doomed. Or so it seemed.

Upon landing, Chaput shook off the large parachute that covered him. Jumping off a plane was an exhilarating experience. Just as he thought that things couldn't get any better, he saw it; a large fiery explosion as Honey's jet hit the ground, a few dozen miles away from him. It let out a deafening roar, as the bright orange light filled the clear sky. Adrien smiled.

_"Au revoir, __ma châtiment." _He waved to her before carefully starting to walk westward to TF HQ. It was about an hour long walk from here. The British tart will not be missed.

* * *

John Doe, now Jane Doe, was casually resting on the battlefield. He was waiting for five days now, and today, finally, they were going to have their first mission. He looked at his shovel he bargained with Helen for. It was indeed a rusty beauty. Well worth the 300 $ a month. Or was that a week? Either way, two things were on his mind; fighting, and figuring out how they made pickles out of cucumbers. Seriously, do they make small cucumbers? Or are cucumbers full grown pickles? It's an amazing world if a man can plant a pickle in the ground and watch a cucumber grow out. God bless America.

Suddenly, the burly American saw a plastic paper bag. It's a terrible thing that people are finding ways to litter this perfectly good wasteland. Terrible. Upon closer inspection, the paper bag became a mosquito. A big, golden, shiny one. He hated mosquitoes. There was nothing Godly about those things. Absolutely nothing. He remembered that one time when he shot rockets at them and watched them die. Good times. Soon, the mosquito turned into a bird. A big, golden, metal bird with wings straight out in the air. Oh, and it was on fire. He remembered once how a bird set Colonel Mustard on fire once. He spent five weeks in a hospital and lost the use of his right leg. Good times. A small silhouette flew out of the flying paper bag flaming bird mosquito, with a strange parachute it held with both of its arms. There was nothing American about that. Or was there? He lost count. Anyway, the flaming bird shaped mosquito was now going straight for him, and looked like it was going to explode at any second… Wait, that was bad, was it?

* * *

Jane Doe woke up after what seemed to be a nap. He rubbed his forehead and looked around him. A second ago, his flesh exploded into a million pieces. And now, he was standing in a laboratory. A scientist gave him a dirty look, along with Helen and her young assistant. They seemed to be studying a man in a glass container. The container was filled with some fluid, and the man inside floated about, seventeen tubes around his face, almost every inch of his body burned, and his short blonde hair flowing in the tank. The Administrator looked at Jane.

"You saw nothing," she said sternly.

Jane shrugged and walked out of the laboratory, back to the burning field. He put out some flames with his boot and stood stoically in place. He really didn't see anything. Except for that strange disfigured man in that fish tank. Would he have some relevance to the story later on? He doubted it.

* * *

Honey landed on the ledge near TF. It was a last minute jump. She wasn't going to die in a burning plane wreckage. She was going to die when shot by a laser on top of a giant shark's head. With all the instruments beeping uncontrollably, realized that it was hopeless to try and fix the malfunctioning system. She needed an escape route. She needed a parachute. And that is when she saw Oldfinger, laying lifeless on the floor. His oversized shirt should do just fine.

Getting him out of it was the problem. The fat, sweaty, lumpy flesh couldn't move on its own, so Honey had to roll him about the cabinet like a lump of dough. Not her finest moment. As soon as she got the shirt off his back, she tied the sleeved to her belt and jumped out of the plane. Best decision of her life.

She was now standing on a ledge, looking at the plane crash nearby. She heard a loud, painful scream of a civilian, which was music to her ears. She started laughing. Two minutes ago she was a goner, and now she was going to steal this job from her worst enemy. She truly loved espionage. She fixed her hair and dropped the sweaty shirt that saved her life. The TF building was right there. What a stroke of dumb luck.

Come to think of it, this entire race was one lucky break after another. Hopefully, the streak will continue.

* * *

After a two hour long sprint across the desert, Adrien ran into the TF base. He was exhausted, and his suit was covered with dust and grime. He managed to drag in front of the base. A bright red laser light flew across his body, much to his surprise. Suddenly, a crackling voice was heard over the intercom.

_"Please state your identification, Sir."_

Adrien frowned upon the strange voice coming from the intercom, but cleared his throat and introduced himself, nonetheless.

"I am agent 003 from the French Secret Service. I am one of the candidates for the position of Spy in this firm."

Silence.

"_I am afraid that the position is already taken, Sir."_

Adrien dropped his jaw in shock. He couldn't believe it. His hard work was all for naught.

"What do you mean, taken? As far as I know, my competition died in a hilarious… gruesome plane crash!"

_"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to vacate the premises."_

"Vacate the…? Madame, I will have you know zat I 'ave not come zees far for nothing! Now you weel get me into this building!" he yelled at the intercom.

_"Now, look, Sir…"_

Adrien saw something blocking the light coming from the peeping hole in the large metal door. This unknown figure quickly moved away. It probably didn't want Adrien to see it. But Adrien saw it well, as a good spy sees all.

_"Um, Sir…" _the voice was now softer, somehow;_ "…could you be so kind to…?"_

"Madame, I assure you, I just need two minutes with my employer to clear something out. _S'il vous plait?"_

He grinned, just in case the figure could still see him. After one second, the door opened loudly. Adrien didn't expect any particular thing when the ghastly door opened, but he surely wasn't expecting… this.

A young girl in her mid-late twenties stood in front of him, smiling. Her hair was tied up in a bun, and she wore a short purple dress. She clutched a couple of files near her chest weakly, holding them like a security blanket. Her face was somewhat pale and exhausted, though it seemed to light up as she saw Adrien. She propped up her cat eyed glasses and smiled at him.

"Hi… Sir," she said stupidly.

Adrien waited for a moment, before comprehending that this creature wouldn't be letting him in anytime soon.

"I f you could just direct me to my employer…"

"Oh! Yeah,…yes! Sure. Good," she gulped; "This way please…"

Adrien rolled his eyes. Even though he definitely didn't look his best today, some things never change, he guessed.

* * *

Meanwhile, not far away from them, Helen the Administrator looked over Honey Pie's performance record. She squinted at it, trying to read the number of digits on her death count. Honey sat comfortably in the chair opposing her, smiling, even. She couldn't wait to see the look on Adrien's face when he finds out that he won't be employed. Maybe he'll cry. She hoped that he would cry.

"According to this, your performance is… adequate."

"So, concerning my employment…" Honey scratched the back of her head. Helen sighed.

"Of course. Your test scores are impeccable. Absolutely. Why not?" she couldn't have said it with less enthusiasm. Honey smiled manically as she stretched out her hand to shake hands with Helen. So close… so very close…

At that moment, Adrien flew in the room, panting. Helen gave him an odd look, and Honey smiled victoriously. Adrien knew then that he was too late.

"Mr. Chaput, is it? Agent 003?" Helen asked. Adrien confirmed.

"Well it's too bad you came late, froggie. You lost! You bloody well lost!" Honey mocked him, expecting him to break down and cry. She expected a reaction, but he gave her nothing.

"I apologize for the inconvenience. I bid you both a good day," he fixed his tie and turned around. The last thing he wanted to do was give Honey the satisfaction of showing her that he was mad.

"You accept defeat quite well, mister Chaput," he heard Helen say. He turned slightly to her, giving a small smile.

"_Oui. _I suppose I do." He noticed Helen taking out a carton of cigarettes. The expensive brand he bought for himself. He might have to settle for a cheaper brand now.

"Cigarette, mister Chaput?" she offered him. It was rude to refuse, so he took one, almost hastily. Helen looked at Honey, uninterestedly.

"Cigarette, miss Pie?"

Much to her discomfort, Honey shook her head.

"Sorry, ma'm. I don't smoke. I don't want to look 60 in five years, right?" she chuckled. Adrien noticed something on the Administrator. It looked like anger. She shook her head at her. And at that moment, Pie knew she said something wrong.

* * *

About five minutes later, the Administrator sent Honey outside on the battlefield. This was her first assignment as a member of the TF team. She was to stand on the field and look pretty.

"Are you sure this is all I'm supposed to do?" she asked Helen, slowly backing away from her.

"Yes. This is all you'll ever do."

Honey couldn't believe how easy this thing turned out for her. She has a job now. And that job was doing nothing. She was the happiest person in the whole bloody…

_"We have some new training targets for you, mister Doe."_ Helen's voice was heard from the intercom. Suddenly, a man moved up on a small hill, pointing a rocket launcher at Honey. She gulped. As the rocket flew straight for her, she knew exactly where this was going. And now it made sense why Helen took away her invisibility watch and gave it to Adrien.

Yes, Honey was the ultimate bad spy girl stereotype.

Mortal enemy? Check.

Biggest pain in the neck thruought the entire adventure? Check.

A silly comical death at the very end? Check.

Nope. Helen never liked non-smokers.

* * *

The Spy was sitting in Helen's office again, after contemplating the resupply room and the rest of his teammates. He found that the brat who phoned his mother would be an excellent punching bag. He and Helen smoked in her office idly.

"Spy," she said sternly; "Do you know why I really hired you to work here?"

Honestly, the current Spy didn't care. He was just glad he had the job, no matter what it is. He was glad that now he had the money for his beloved Mrs. Stevenson to support her. And now he won't have to sell that manor in Cleveland. Why did he buy that thing again? Anyway, he won't be giving it up any time soon.

"Your line of duties goes beyond just assisting in battle," she propped her elbows up on her desk; "Do you know why our client stay employed for twenty or so years, though they are bound by their contracts for one, two years maximum?"

Adrien shook his head. His question was answered when Helen dropped a large stack of papers on the desk.

"Blackmail," she explained. "This information is concerning all the employees we hired dating back from 1890. Knowing that Abraham Lincoln is afraid of snakes might not mean much to you or me, but it might mean enough to him to keep him around for an extra year. The best business is run by fear, Spy," she grinned before taking another long drag.

"I want you to provide the information, scandals on every single one of our current members. All the intelligence, all compromising evidence," she pointed her long finger at him; "Bear in mind, this evidence doesn't come out until it has to. Until then, nobody knows about it. Make them feel safe before you show them their life crumble beneath their feet. Understand?"

"But of course." He smiled to her.

"Good. This is all I'm going to say to you. Now get out of my office."

Adrien nodded to her and dusted off his brand new suit. He looked at Honey's watch on his wrist. Stealing a poor girl's job because she didn't smoke. And then stealing her possessions. His mother would've been so proud. He walked out the door, and proceeded to the resupply room. The young girl who first greeted him was now bringing a larger man, wielding a heavy looking weapon.

"Hi," she said stupidly.

The man sighed as he took out a cigarette from his cigarette box. Pauling warned him about smoking being prohibited, when she looked into his icy blue eyes.

"I'll make an exception this time," she smiled at him.

"_Mademoiselle_…" he fixed his red tie and asked in his strong French accent which made her tremble; "When I came here earlier, zhere was no problem with zees," he gestured to his cigarette; "I would hate zees to be an inconvenience," he tried not to stare at the giant mini-gun the giant behind Pauling hauled over.

The Frenchman had the core of a gentleman, but the French exterior of a self-righteous dick. Still, Pauling found it irresistible. She giggled once again, playing with a strand of hair, wrapping it around her finger.

"It…it won't be a problem, Sir," she smiled stupidly. The Frenchmen input the password, and the door opened with a series of satisfying clicks.

"_Mademoiselle, _you are as understanding as you ahre lovely." He smiled at her before going into the room and lighting up his cigarette. Pauling giggled like a silly schoolgirl.

"Yo!" the young boy screamed; "You is French, right? I could smell your cheese cologne from the hall!"

Adrien rolled his eyes and smiled sarcastically.

"..._non,_ I am a belly dancer from Barbados."

He shuddered as the Ashleea disguise came to mind. He thought about what Helen said to him about getting the dirt on all of his teammates. To get that from them, he would have to… interact with them. He shook at the thought. Adrien suddenly found his target; a tall slim man carrying a sniper rifle, sulking on the bench and ignoring the boy yapping at him. The boy suddenly stopped yapping and turned to the Frenchman.

"Yo, Spook, why do you wear that mask around here?"

Adrien rolled his eyes.

"Because I am ze most beautiful man in the world, and removing this mask would cause ze universe to implode."

Much to his surprise, the young man started staring at him.

"What in God's name are you doing?"

"Ey, you's can't just say that stuff and expect me not to check it for viability."

Adrien cursed at him in French.

"You's bullshitting. You know how I know? 'Cuz I'm around, and the universe didn't implode… yet. Dude, I gotta get me one of dem masks."

The boy then ran elsewhere, to annoy someone else. The Frenchmen already knew one thing; the boy was useless. So he looked at the man instead.

"Hello," Spy greeted the slightly filthy man sitting on the bench. "Ees something wrong?"

"Nah," was his only response.

Spy shrugged and got up. Well, at least he tried. He was more than surprised when the man started to talk to him, in his strange, bushman accent.

"Do you ever want something gone? Just, disappear? Like it never existed?"

Spy reluctantly sat next to him again.

"Like a person?"

The Australian shook his head; "Nah, a person oi can deal with myself. Oi'm talking about something… a thing… I don't know where it is, but Oi want it gone."

"I'm afraid you're not making much sense."

The Australian shrugged. "I know."

Spy didn't know what to make of this. It's a start, though. He looked over the men in the room again. The Administrator said that there would be eight men on the team with him. Spy knew that there was a Soldier in the battlefield, refusing to come in. Then there was the hyperactive kid, the Scout, the Sniper, the drunken Demoman, the Heavy, the Medic, that one man he guessed was the Engineer, reading the letter…

Eight. Eight men. That should be it…right?

"Ey, kid!" yelled the bushman to the Scout; " Double or nothing! Wot do you think that came from?"

The group stared at the thing that walked among them. They all dropped their jaws. Eight men… and that.

"I have no idea, brah."


	14. We Called It The Pyro

It was a bright September morning when the malfunctioning aircraft crashed near Gold Rush in Badlands, New Mexico. Helen remembered that day well. She was watching a large screen in front of her, smoking her thin cigarette. Everything was going according to plan. The BLU team was almost complete, and the only thing the RED team was missing was a Spy and a Pyro. The Spy won't be a problem to find. The two exceptional candidates were racing to New Mexico at this very moment. Helen checked on their progress occasionally, monitoring their positions via a small tracking device in their provided files. She wanted Adrien to come first. Though Honey Pie was unusually good at what she does, Adrien has a certain appeal. He was refined, cunning and sly, while Honey proffered to take care of business head-on. A very formidable quality she had, though Helen found it excessive in this particular job. If she wanted brutality, she would have recruited another Soldier. She took another long drag at the cigarette, watching the two dots on the screen go across the large map. The black dot was Adrien, the green one was Honey. They seemed to have been going neck and neck with the race, moving at equal speed of 2000 mph, and extremely close to each other. Helen wasn't quite sure what was going on.

Could they have been… collaborating? No. That would have been unacceptable.

At that moment, Adrien's dot stopped. Honey's dot continued forward, going faster and faster. Helen was very disappointed with how things worked out. Adrien was extremely close to winning the race. But something else was off.

When Helen typed in a couple of codes, the map flipped itself, now showing her guinea pigs' altitude. Adrien was grounded, but Honey was high up in the air. She was going faster than before, but she seemed to be getting lower. Helen put out her cigarette and rubbed her forehead with her index finger. What on earth was going on?

At one point, Honey's green dot lowered itself onto what seemed like a small hill. She was closer to the base than Adrien, but still not quite there. The Administrator shrugged. Maybe Miss Pie would learn to be sly, calm and collected like her competition. Her little landing was abrupt. Almost like she was on a plane and jumped from it at one point.

A blinding light shot out Helen's window. She shrieked and covered her eyes. She could feel the ground shaking from underneath her chair; the windows trembled, but stayed intact. The large screen gave out static, and its image was reduced to one single dot. Helen didn't know what to think of this. She arched her eyebrows angrily when she looked at the files covering her thick purple carpet.

"Pauling!"

The young assistant ran to Helen, clutching some files like a security blanket and hastily making short, nervous steps. Helen frowned at her.

"What was that?"

"It seems that…" she gulped; "It seems that a jet crashed near Gold Rush."

Helen frowned. A jet must've been Honey's mean of transport. And her descend was her escape from the malfunctioning aircraft. Adrien must have anticipated the malfunction before her. He was such a good Spy. It was a shame that he would lose this job.

"Our new Spy is near."

Pauling shifted some files in her sweaty palms. Helen looked at the blank screen.

"The recruits?"

"Asleep, ma'm. Mundy, Conagher and DeGroot are in the resupply room. It's soundproof, so this didn't disturb them. But… Jane Doe was outside…"

"He'll be respawned. Now, Miss Pauling," said Helen, crossing her legs; "Why did you really come here?"

"We, uh… we found… we found our Pyro."

Helen looked at her trembling assistant. She looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"Have someone clean out the wreckage. And bring me to our new Pyro."

* * *

Pauling looked at the strange figure in the laboratory. In this clean, crystal clear, sterile environment, there was something floating about in a large glass tube. The creature looked human, but fire burned his flesh, until he was unrecognizable. Its hands were yellow and seemed to crumble; dark black circles were between its thumb and index finger. A small bone was popping out of the middle. The skin at the palm of the hand war strangely intact, except for its fingertips, which were bloody red. The yellowish burn wounds stretched out of the hands and onto the arms. Its arms were long and lean, and there was a cavernous hole in each one. Pinkish flesh was seen through them, it was falling out of the open oval wounds. Its legs were completely black, like coal, and the blackness stretched up far, across his abdomen. Pauling looked at the thing's feet, floating about. The skin peeled towards the legs, and she could see four white bones popping out.

But the most terrifying part was the face. The burn sore stretched from the neck and onto the back of the head. The thing's dirty dark blonde hair was floating in the tank in small, uneven patches. The creature had no nose, and the entire face was completely red and leathery. Large crevasses were burnt in its cheeks, and boils the size of fists were across its forehead. Though the figure kept its eyes unopened, Pauling could see the whiteness of the eyes peeking out of the thin, translucent eyelids. It was almost as if they were leaking.

It was truly a gruesome sight.

"Is this him?" Helen asked a man standing next to the tank. The man was a doctor working at Team Fortress.

"Yes. Yes it is."

Helen looked at the man floating about in the large tube once more.

"Who is he?"

The doctor nervously shifted his weight to his right leg, looking at the ground.

"Well, madam, the thing is…" he swallowed some saliva as he felt his throat going bone dry with anxiety; "I'm not even sure what it is."

Pauling felt sick to her stomach, but Helen remained looking at the strange creature.

"How?" she lifted her eyebrow.

"The facial features are unidentifiable. This… whatever it is… isn't in any of our databases."

"It got burned when the jet landed?" assumed Helen.

"No, madam. We actually found it in this building. It was already burnt from something else. It did this itself. It could've been someone from our company, who wasn't in our DNA records. It could've been anyone from Redmond Mann to the cleaning lady."

Helen frowned at Pauling, who gave out a nervous smile. She wanted to run away from here. She couldn't look at this… thing.

"Is it a man or a woman?" Pauling asked.

"We don't know for sure."

"How can you not know for sure?!" yelled Helen, gesturing at all the expensive equipment laying around the sterile environment. They could determine everything.

"Well… we tested…it… and we got its chromosomes…" the man scratched his head nervously.

"They… they are XXXY."

"What does that mean?" Pauling asked worriedly.

"It means… in some way… it's… both."

For once, Helen lifted her eyebrows.

"Can't you just…?" Pauling blushed trying to ask the question. The doctor saw her discomfort.

"We would, but the area was… whatever it had before, it's… charred off."

Pauling gulped, trying not to faint. She could see large green spots in front of her eyes, flashing rapidly.

"Why is it in this liquid?" asked Helen, looking at the few dozen tubes going from its mouth and neck.

"The liquid keeps the body parts from wandering off, it keeps it together. We put it in a coma, to feel less pain… before the operation."

"Operation? You don't suggest…?" Pauling flinched and looked at the Administrator, standing stoically.

"This… He… She… Is massacred! How can you even suggest sending it in battle?"

"We need members, Pauling."

"But, you can't…!"

Helen looked at the girl and screamed at her.

"You don't think I don't hate the idea?! You don't think I hate the fact I would recruit somebody that I don't know?! I don't even know if it's human!" Helen gasped, trying to calm herself down. She looked away from Pauling, breathing heavily.

"Pauling. This… whatever it is… is technically not human. Sending it to battle is more humane than sending another man or woman. Do not consider this creature a human being. Don't you forget that, Pauling. And don't you dare raise your voice at me."

Helen didn't like the idea of recruiting it, either. But it clearly liked playing with fire. She couldn't blackmail it to make it stay on the team longer, so she would have to rely on its… loyalty. She shuddered.

"Don't disrespect me, Pauling. You're not the first assistant I had."

Pauling bobbed her head down. Her next words were quiet and directed to the doctor.

"If it would hurt him to be awake, wouldn't fighting be a bit much for it to bear?"

"I have taken the liberty of creating a serum. When injected into its bloodstream, it should eliminate all pain it could ever possibly have. And its suit would keep it together and relatively safe."

He vaguely smiled at her.

"Do we have a new recruit, Helen?"

Helen nodded at him once. Pauling looked at her flat purple shoes, trying to hide a tear streaming down her face.

After their conversation, Jane Doe managed to respawn in the laboratory. After Helen told him that he didn't see anything, he walked out of the room. Though it threw them off track, they didn't let it disturb them too much. The doctor moved up to a control board and input a series of codes. As he did, some tubes began to remove themselves from the thing's body, one by one. When they were all gone, the thing's face dropped on the smooth, glass surface of the tube, leaving a small red imprint. Pauling's heart began racing. Why was this happening?

Suddenly, the front half lifted itself, letting the slightly greasy, transparent liquid drip on the floor. Helen took a step back, trying to avoid the liquid spreading across the tiled floor. When the liquid was gone, the numb figure plopped to the floor, with little warning. It folded itself up like a ragdoll, and it made Pauling feel uneasy.

It was completely quiet for a minute. The three people gathered around the badly burnt man. The doctor prepared a syringe filled with purple liquid, and gave it a small push, making some liquid squirt. Soon, the figure's eyes began to move, in short, twitching motions. It felt its every nerve, the pain rushing into its brain. The peeling, burning, unforgiving pain. It twisted on the floor, twitching ferociously. It opened its mouth and let out a roar. It was a terrible, high-pitched sound, making the room shake. Helen grabbed its greasy shoulders, and her fingertips dug in deep into his raw flesh. It screamed again, but couldn't move. It kicked around, slipping out of Helen's grasp. The doctor stuck the needle in its neck. As the purple liquid poured out of it, the creature stopped moving. It fell on the floor, completely still. Helen nodded at the doctor, who put the needle away. A quiet, whimpering sound was heard from the back.

Pauling was curled up in the fetal position, clutching her chest and crying. She rocked back and forth, her eyes shut tightly. She wanted to forget the creature's screams. She wanted to forget everything. How could they be so cruel to it?

Helen looked at the doctor.

"Get it in the suit. Then erase her memory."

Pauling felt Helen's presence as she walked up to her.

"You have to be strong in this business, Pauling. There is no room for whiners."

Pauling cleared off her tears, while the doctor took out an optical mask from the bright white closet. She looked at her knees.

"I'll… I'll try to be strong."

"There is no try, Monica."

Pauling flinched at the mention of her name. She looked at the Administrator, looking down at her.

"Y…yes, ma'm."

Monica looked at the blinding bright light. And soon, she didn't remember anything. She straightened her shirt and walked over to wake up Mister Morrison. Hopefully, he wasn't a heavy sleeper.

* * *

_Have you ever wondered about the wonderful world we live in?_

_I have._

_Don't you just love the feeling you get, running around in an endless plain?_

_I do._

_I remember doing a bad thing before coming in here. A lot of bad things happened to me. And to some people, I was bad. But that changed. A nice man gave me a magic potion. And since then, I feel wonderful. The world is beautiful. I can't even describe it._

_Meeting my teammates was so much fun. They all smiled as they saw me. One of them drank sweet apple nectar, and the other talked to his wife by the big candy phone. One man was funny, in particular. He asked me so many questions. I answered them nicely, but he couldn't seem to understand me. I wonder why?_

_Everything I say is extremely interesting to them. They listen to me closely. I know that we are going to be great friends. _

_On that day, we were all wearing red. I like red; it's the color of sweet cherry syrup and roses. We were going to run around with some people wearing blue. Blue is the color of the big, bright sky. We race with them to these big beautiful houses, and we push this magnificent chariot._

_It's just so much fun!_

_I like playing with the blue guys. I make rainbows with my magical rainbow blower. And when they touch it, they sparkle. They sparkle and shine, and run away from me. They scream with joy._

_Such loud joy._

_Then they fall when they get too tired. They look like puppies when they plop on the ground. Like puppies jumping in their cribs at night. If they get really close to me, I give them a lollipop. They seem to like it. When they grab it, they just look so happy. They scream and cry with joy._

_Such painfully loud joy._

_Sometimes, they hit me with their candy pellets, or their large candy sticks. I feel nothing. Sometimes, I wake up in the beautiful meadow I started the race in. I think getting hit sends you back. I like to hit the guys who hit me with my special bubble blower. I think they like it. Rainbows shoot out of their necks and heads when one hits them. They are such cool dudes._

_For some strange reason, they seem to run away from my rainbows. They scream with joy when they see them, but they run after that. Reds don't run. But they don't scream. How peculiar._

_My teammates are the best. They seem to be taking this game a bit more seriously than I do. But hey, I can't blame them for competing. I suppose they just want to win really badly. They don't appreciate the sheer beauty of this land._

_To think, only a while ago, I was burning things. Pictures of one person who made me angry. She made me very angry, I remember. And the flames spread across my body, engulfing me. But that's over now. The nice lady and the doctor gave me this rainbow blower and a special mask. They are such nice people. If that one lady I was angry at gave me a chance to see this magnificent plain, I'm not mad at her anymore. In fact, I'm grateful._

_I sometimes spin around, feeling like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. My friend thought I was silly when I did that. But I knew that he was kidding when he called me crazy. I'm not crazy. _

_Now look at that silly masked man, fidgeting around the cake dispenser. I think he wants more cake. That guy is funny. He runs away from my rainbows more than anyone else. It's just so amusing._

_They all dance around, having the time of their lives. Oh, how I love making people happy! And when I make blue happy, I'll try making red a whole lot happier._

_The only thing I don't like is how my friend isn't here. I miss him so. *sigh*_

_I hope the mean lady sent you to heaven, Abraham. I sure hope that she's in the other place._

* * *

**A/N: **Well, there it is. The creepiest chapter I ever did, in my opinion. And now, Pyro's ghastly image will haunt you forever. And ever. Have a nice day..._  
_


	15. One Week Later

**The following events take place roughly at 18:37 p.m., Boston time, one week after the recruitment.**

* * *

Bill never knew how many things he actually had. He has already packed three boxes with the clothes, baseball trophies, and various other items that he was going to take back to the base. His mother looked at him as he hauled the items in the living room, one by one, and placed them in a large cardboard box. That's one thing he liked about Team Fortress. They let you personalize your living area. And they provided infinite closet space. He has spent an entire week working for them, and it somehow grew on him. He began to like the job, and tolerate most of his teammates. The realization that he won't die on the job made him feel safer. Bill smiled at the thought that he has been killed about twenty times this week. If his mother knew what his real profession was, she would lose it. It was an unwritten rule that the employers stay as secretive about the organization as possible. So, he was a construction worker until further notice. A seemingly harmless profession compared to what he normally did. Still, his mother was worried.

"Do you really need all that stuff? You can always come back to Boston if you need anything. You don't need to take everything at once."

Bill still felt dazed from his flight from New Mexico to Boston. He couldn't stay long, the next battle was in about two days, and he had to get these boxes shipped tomorrow. He yawned, closing up the cardboard box with a piece of brown tape.

"I kinda do, Ma. I will be there for a year or so."

He picked up the box with a grunt, and put it in the corner along with the others. His mother sighed. Their tiny apartment felt so big and empty when he was gone. She had spent a week without him, and every day seemed to pass a little bit slower. When he finally got home, he barely managed to eat a few of her home-made cookies before proceeding to pack. The plate of baked dough, filled with small chocolate chips was sitting on the living room table, almost untouched. She smiled, weakly.

"You… you really like this job, don't you?"

"Are ya kiddin'? It's da best, Ma! I got ta work with these pretty cool guys, and we have… flexible hours, and you would not believe the… health care plan!"

A respawn machine was something that Bill couldn't get used to at first. But, as time passed, he found it to be quite useful. During battle, you would remolecularize in seconds. If killed outside of battle, your body would be on standby, until you had to fight again. Bill never dared to ask what happens to the people who have to wait until the next battle. Spending more than ten seconds in that broken state couldn't have been comfortable. He shuddered.

"I just hope you're taking care of yourself."

"I am, Ma," he smiled at her; "Don't worry about me."

He placed the last box in the corner, standing up straight to crack his spine into place. His old room seemed much cleaner than before. He couldn't believe how many things he wanted to throw out. His mother seemed strangely clingy to everything he didn't want. She was sitting on the big armchair, the soft September sun shining on her lap. Her arms were resting on top of her knees. She was thinking about something, but Bill couldn't figure out what.

"I talked to Steve yesterday," she said, with an apathetic expression, not looking at her son.

"Oh?" Bill sat on the large comfortable sofa.

"He's kind of angry. One of the girls quit."

"Which one?"

"Peppermint."

Bill sat up, his mouth half open in slight shock.

"Not Peppermint! She was the best girl in the place! She could put on a show like a freakin' pro!"

"And how would you know?" his mother looked at him, acting slightly angry; "Have you been there?"

"No!" he said defensively, before crossing his arms and looking at his chest with a solemn expression.

"They don't let yous in until yous 21. Which is crap, because they freakin' **hire** girls younger than dat."

His mother chuckled softly at her son. He seemed to grow up so much, so fast. Maybe he grew up a little bit too fast. She found it saddening, how she had no control over his life. Her son twitched in his place.

"Oh!"

He presented her with a small white envelope addressed to him. It was a check from TF Industries.

"I figured you'd want it sooner or later. It's not exactly 40 grand, but…" he shrugged. Mrs. Morrison had already forgotten about this agreement they made about a week ago, in a rush of anger and impatience. She held the check in her hands, looking at the packed boxes. Her son's life that he spent inside this house was packed neatly into four large boxes. She felt strange, somehow.

"What's wrong, Ma?" Bill got up, cleaning some dust off his jeans. The woman remained seated and looked down to the floor.

"When you take these boxes, and you give me the rest of the money… You will leave me. And you'll be gone for at least a year," she looked up at him, tears streaming down her eyes; "I don't want you to leave, Bill. I… I can't be alone."

"Ma… Ma, you serious?" the boy kneeled, so that they could be at eye level. His mother was crying for the first time since he was a kid. She sniffed once before wiping off a small tear of her face.

"I have mothered eight kids. They never visit. Any of them. And… now I feel bad for trying to send you out of the house. When you go… I'll have no one."

It was true. All of her boys left in pursuit of their happiness, she divorced her husband when Bill was a child, and the other man in her life, her lover she kept a secret all these years, picked this week to join some business firm. Everyone left her, and the more she thought about it, the more alone she felt. Bill narrowed his eyes, placing his palms on her shoulders.

"Ma, I will nevah leave you the way those knuckleheads did. Got dat? Nevah. I-I don't want you's sayin' dat evah again."

At that moment, a smile crept across her face, before she hugged him tightly. At this point he realized how much he had missed her. He rested his head against her shoulder.

"How did I deserve such a wonderful son like you?"

"You didn't, Ma," he joked at her. Still, he stayed in her clasp just a touch longer. The sun shined across his face warmly, while he kneeled on the thick crème carpet. This was his real home. He knew that he would come and visit it more than he intended.

* * *

"Irene?"

Dell walked into the living room. Sarah was in her room. According to Irene, she didn't get down to the living room much. Why would she? Dell looked around the messy surroundings; the film projector tipped to the ground, almost broken in half. The couch cushions were stained and rustled, and furniture was flipped over. The room looked like a war zone. His wife was running around, frantically. She was wearing her old pink bathrobe, her golden hair tied up in a bun. She looked like she had slept for ten days and just woke up. In reality, she barely slept this week. In only two hours, her life crushed before her eyes, leaving her alone to collect the pieces. And now… it was gone.

"Where is it?!" she yelled, throwing some old books from the bookstand, looking for something. She didn't see her husband walk in.

"Are you alright?" asked Dell worriedly, stepping around the broken glass on the floor. He recognized some shattered porcelain near the couch; it was their wedding china.

"No, Dell, I'm not alright!" she screamed at him, clutching her head; "Our daughter is insane!"

"What… what do you mean?" he asked. Insane? His first week was quite insane. Could she top that?

"She killed a man, Dell! And then she had sex with another man who also killed a man!" she cried, her face turning puffy. She turned around, moving the old books around. "Where is it?!"

"C- calm down, now. Sarah told me you were scaring her. Now what gives you these crazy ideas?"

"She sent me a tape! She sent me a tape she made for film school! She's mocking us, Dell! She's not welcome here!"

"Tape? What tape? Where's the tape, Irene?"

His wife clenched her fists, sobbing. "It's… it's…"

"The tape, Irene. Where is the god damn tape?" he asked again, sternly. His wife dropped to the ground, burying her face in her palms. She mumbled under her breath. Dell ran up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. He gave her a few vigorous shakes, trying to calm her down.

"The tape, Irene. Where is the damn tape? Answer me!"

"I… I don't know."

She broke down and started crying, her hot tears dripping on her lap. She shook under Dell's hands, not being able to stop.

"I saw it. I saw everything, Dell. I… I called you right away and… a-and… I couldn't find it," she bit her lip; "It was gone that very same day. The film, the camera. It was gone, all gone."

"Wait, she sent the camera, too?"

"Yes! I mean… I… I don't know. It was here, I held it in my hands…" she mimicked holding it, before she let her arms fall to her sides. She continued to cry.

"Dell… I'm scared."

Dell has never seen his wife as such a nervous wreck before. He knew that he had to be strong. He took a deep breath, bringing her closer to him.

"Right."

He held his wife closer to him, who was still weeping. He stroked her thin, greasy hair while trying to sound as calm and as reasonable as possible.

"Let's think about this logically. She needs the film and the camera for school. Why would she send them both here in the first place?"

"But Dell…"

"Shhh!" he hushed her. She leaned over to him again, biting her tongue.

"She wouldn't. Now, I reckon that she was returning to Boston on the day you got the tape. She didn't exactly have time to develop the film while she was on the twenty hour long flight, did she?"

His wife shook her head, cleaning off some tears.

"And, finally, I know Pepper. She is our little angel. She would never do anything wrong, got that?"

Irene bit her lip.

"But… what did I see?"

"I guess you took this… everything that happened a bit too hard. Your mind must've been playin' tricks on you, or summin'."

"But it looked so real, Dell."

"And how can you confirm that it was?" he asked in a louder tone. She bobbed her head down, quietly.

"You can't. Now… I can't exactly blame ya for goin' ape over the place, but…"

He looked deeply into her big sad eyes. He wasn't sure what just happened, but he was sure that he wanted his family back together, intact.

"Did you tell Pepper that she ain't welcome here anymore?"

"No… I-I couldn't."

"Well, don't! I don't want you to make enemies with your daughter for something that's in your head. Understand?"

Irene nodded, softly.

"Good. Now I suppose you ought to get some sleep. I… I can clean this place up if you want."

"No. No, I... I'll do it myself."

Irene wiped off her eyes before standing up. She was determined to do this herself. If she was stupid enough to even think that her daughter would do such a thing… Irene was terrified, but at least now she knew that her baby was still her beautiful baby. Even if that meant that she was turning into an unstable lunatic.

* * *

Tavish DeGroot found himself in a large white cubicle. It was completely, almost ghostly white. He knew why he was here. He had just been respawned. Or, rather, he was about to be respawned. He knew that it was a bad idea to attempt the sticky bomb jump while intoxicated. That didn't stop him from trying, though.

It was a shame that he did it only to celebrate his victory. He and some other mercs stayed in the base during cease fire, but they were no fun at all. Even after they won five out of seven fights, no one felt like celebrating. Except for poor Tavish. He won't be able to respawn until the next battle, which means that he has to stay here for… 26 hours.

"Bloody hell," he commented upon his realization, about to take a swig out of his Scrumpy bottle. Sadly, the brown bottle didn't seem to come with him, and he was now sober, alone, and in a strange white limbo where the souls would go upon death, when it wasn't clear if they would go to heaven or hell, or when they were supposed to be brought back. He cursed under his breath. He never really liked these supernatural places, far beyond someone's comprehension. He seemed to float about the white nothingness of it all. It seemed like an endless room. If anything, he will be able to be here for a while. Time speeds up when in the limbo, or so he had heard. Maybe, just maybe, he will be out of here in what seems like a second. It would still be a second too long without his Scrumpy.

Realizing that the situation was hopeless, he began to hum. He hummed a strange melody he only just thought of. When he was drunk, he couldn't function, or think of anything. But when he was only half-drunk, he had this strange urge to sing. The half-drunkenness seemed to awake his inner poet or something. He floated about the white space, staring upwards.

"Hello?" he called, expecting an echo. But there were no walls, nothing for the echo to bounce out of.

"Anyone 'round here? Oi! Eye shagged yer wife!" he screamed to pass the time.

"Ye don't wanna show yer face, eh? Come 'ere and show yerself!" he yelled, thinking about how completely and utterly mad he was.

"Come on you hellish apparition! Show yerself!"

…

_"Okay."_

That one sound made him twist in horror. It was so familiar. That soft, quiet voice of a person who made him a drunken slob promptly after her death. As he turned, his Ghost appeared out of nowhere, floating in mid-air in front of him. He didn't know what this was. Maybe she was a mirage? He probably had too much to drink. But there she was standing, or rather floating, before him like a strange ghoul.

"G-ghost?"

"Yeah. Literal ghost now, even," she shrugged.

Tavish looked at her, looking completely bemused. There she was; his beloved Ghost stood… er, floated before him. Her long platinum hair floated in mid-air, and her pale porcelain skin looked as perfect as ever. Tavish didn't know what to make of this. There she was, his oldest friend that he thought he had lost forever. And she there, in the flesh. She wasn't alive, but she was still physically there with him. Kind of.

"Ghost!" he jumped to her, squeezing her tightly. She felt like her normal self, despite her ghostly disposition.

"Hey, Pirate, how have you been?"

"Ghost, I… I never thought I'd see you again."

"What are you doing in the Limbo, anyway?" she asked.

"Just passin' through."

"Oh, me too. I actually got into heaven, but I prefer being here. It's less noisy."

"Huh. So there really is a heaven, eh?"

"Yep. It's not very populated, though."

"Ghost, 'ave you seen my Da in there, somewhere? In heaven, I mean."

Ghost looked away from him.

"No… not really… But hey, not everyone gets in."

Tavish shrugged. He couldn't really expect a Demoman to get into heaven after trying to blow up a member of Spanish royalty. He looked at his beautiful Adelaide again. She looked so alive.

"So what brings you here?" she asked.

"Eye, I accidentally blew meself up. I'll go back to the Earth world soon enuff. And ye?"

"Tuberculosis. But you know that," she said. Tavish chuckled nervously, trying to find something to say.

"So… wot's it like here?"

"Being dead? It's fine. I'm not sick anymore. And I can eat as much as I can without getting fat," she chuckled softly. She began kicking her feet in mid-air. Adelaide wore her black lacquered shoes, as always.

"So, I guess you got the job," she frowned at him; "And I heard you pawned my crucifix."

"Yeah. Sorry about that, lass."

"It's quite alright. You can't take it with you, anyway."

The two smiled at each other. It was a perfectly normal conversation between a Demoman and his deceased platonic friend, held in the vast nothingness of the unearthly Limbo.

Tavish scratched his nose, somewhat nervously.

"So, now wot?"

"How much time do you have?"

"About 26 hours until I respawn," Tavish shrugged. Adelaide floated about the bright white room, looking in the distance. Her eyes were as deep and beautiful as always. She smiled at him, stretching her full, bloody red lips.

"Well, we have some time to catch up on stuff. So, tell me about this respawn thing!"

They talked about his profession, the respawn system, the afterlife and the famous people in heaven for what seemed like two minutes. Time always seemed to fly by when they talked. It seemed to fly by even faster in the limbo. After Adelaide told Tavish that Marilyn Monroe was accepted into heaven, she began squirming nervously.

"Wot's wrong?"

"You'll need to go soon, I'm afraid."

"Wot? 'Ow?"

"It's been twenty six hours. I think your friends are waiting for you…"

Tavish groaned, trying to take a swig from his bottle of Scrumpy, which failed to get in the Limbo with him. It has become a reflex by now, drinking when something goes the wrong way. He clutched his head and groaned once more.

"They're not me friends, Ghost."

Adelaide placed her thin, long arms across his shoulders, looking him straight in the eye.

"You really do look like a pirate, now," she smiled at him softly. Adelaide turned her head to the side, looking into nothingness.

"Promise… promise that you'll visit me here."

"Wot?!" he flinched in disbelief. Did she want him to attempt killing himself again?

"Are you insane? Ye can't ask me to blow meself up whenever you please!"

"Oh, well. I tried," Adelaide shrugged. She suddenly got herself closer to him, looking deeply into his eye.

"Can… can I try something before you go? You know, because you'll respawn in a second or so," she blushed.

"And wot would that be?"

At that moment, Adelaide leaned her head forward until their lips touched. It felt like an awkward bump more than anything else, but it still made Tavish open his eye widely in shock and excitement. Though their lips were quite stationary, the kiss was incredibly warm, and strangely enough, almost romantic. Adelaide's arms were limp, and on either side of her body, like two wet spaghetti strings. It was the strangest kiss Tavish ever experienced. It wasn't exactly romantic, but it was fascinating. The last time they kissed was… about twenty years ago, on the day he lost his eye. Was it really that long?

Once Adelaide moved away, she shyly looked at her feet, pointing to Tavish. He stood still, his lips lightly parted, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

"That… how was that?" she whispered.

"Eye will definitely be coming here more than eye should."

* * *

In the depths of Teufort, Victor Mundy was quietly cleaning his sniper rifle. Proper maintenance is a must for every professional. He started to doubt his professionalism by now. The thoughts of Pepper made him unwell. He heard an explosion in the distance, and he knew that it was the Demoman who blew himself up in one of his famous drunken stunts. None of his teammates were professional, so why in bloody hell would he be? This strange thought made him angry, and he began rubbing the magnifying scope furiously, not caring that it was cleaned to perfection. The Texan on their team went home that day. It was only a matter of time before he finds out. And then what? What will happen to their team when two colleagues completely despise each other? Mundy wasn't afraid of the Texan. Far from it. He knew that he could take him on if he needed. Hell, the bloke couldn't hurt a fly.

He did do some damage on the BLU team, though. Those toys he made were quite impressive. Mundy gulped. He was mostly worried about Pepper. He took this job to save her life, but did he take away her home in the process? What if they really don't get her home? It was unprofessional for him to think about it, but the thoughts of her being homeless and alone slithered through his head like angry serpents.

Suddenly, a strange metallic case was thrown onto his lap. It was a cylindrical case, and it seemed quite heavy when it fell on the marksman's thighs. Mundy blinked at it a couple of times before looking up at the person who threw it. There he stood; a masked man, fixing his scarlet tie while looking in the distance uninterestedly. He glanced at the Sniper once before continued to walk around the resupply room. The marksman looked at the small case. This wasn't what he thought it was… was it?

"Wot's this, Spook?" he asked, lifting the small metal container towards the masked mercenary. The Frenchman took out one slim cigarette, bringing it close to his face.

"It ees what you wanted to get rid of. You mentioned something about eet ze first time that we met," he lit his cigarette. Sniper carefully popped the cap open, eager to see its contents. There it was; a roll of plastic, brownish material, with various dark imprints on each segment. He noticed that the roll was quite thick.

"This… this isn't wot Oi think it is, is it?"

The Frenchman dusted off some lint of his suit with his right hand after leaving his cigarette to linger in his mouth, smooth lines of smoke coming out of the lit end.

"I believe it ees, bushman. And eet was surprisingly easy to retrieve."

The Australian looked at the roll in his hands. It was the film. The elusive item that almost ruined the Conagher family. It was right there in his hands. His doubts about the film getting to the Texan's family were confirmed. He gulped.

"You should know zat ze small issue concerning zhis little piece has been dealt with."

Mundy didn't know what to say. During the last week, the spook terrified everyone on the team. Almost as much as that… thing… terrified them. And for the first time, what he did for any member of his team seemed strangely humane. Almost…nice.

Though Mundy knew that he couldn't trust the spook that easily.

"Oi don't know how or why you did this… but thank you."

"No thanks is needed my friend. Having two members hate each other wouldn't benefit the team," Spy said, about to leave.

Mundy looked at the compromising film for one brief second.

"You watched this, didn't you, Spook?"

The Frenchman did watch it. He also made himself a copy or three, sending one to Helen, one to the girl in the film, and keeping one for himself as a spare. He needed some material on every one of his teammates, per Helen's request. He wouldn't tell him that, though. Instead, he lightly turned his head to him, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

"A young, offensively stupid natural redhead," he noted; "You should conseeder yourself lucky."

After a frown, he quickly added: "And she should consider herself apeshit insane."

Mundy huffed as the Frenchman left the room. He continued to look at the film for one brief moment, reminding him of the events that took place in the vast Australian outback. He couldn't help but to think about what happened to Pepper. One day of unprofessionalism almost cost that girl her life. And it cost him his freedom.

He didn't know what happened to him. He was unprofessional in only two aspects of his life. Pepper, and not telling his parents about his true profession.

He slowly made his way to a small corner in the back of the room. The team kept some ammo there, along with a couple of medipacks. He looked down at the small metal trashcan. He didn't quite know what he was doing. He stared at the film. This one girl got him in more trouble than he could possibly imagine. And he probably made her life hell.

His hands started to shake as he held the container over the bin. He couldn't go back to her after this. What was he thinking? He was too old, she was too naïve. With one small jerk, he dropped the film in the bin, with a loud clang.

"Oi'm sorry Sheila, but this is for your own good," he muttered under his breath.

After trying to correct one of his mistakes, he made his way to the phone. It was time to let his mum know that he wasn't in fact, a brain surgeon. Strangely enough, they seemed to believe him. He figured that they would be disappointed when they find out about his true profession. Still, he had to tell them. Mundy owed it to himself to be professional at all times.

And he also owed it to Pepper.

* * *

Pepper Conagher never realized how cold the streets of Boston were before. She was sitting on the cold concrete pavement, wrapped in a long green scarf. She was sitting with her best friend in front of her apartment building, eating a small chocolate muffin. Her friend wanted to ask her so many things, but Pepper could barely speak at all. Cindy coughed a couple of times, running her fingers through her short blonde hair. Something happened to her friend, and she had to know what.

"So…" she started; "Do you wanna tawk 'bout it?"

Pepper took another bite off the muffin, not saying a word. Her eyes were strangely glassy. A peculiar thing happened one day after she came back to Boston. She managed to find her camera on her table, in front of her bed. Soon she found out that her film was delivered to her professor, and that she had passed the year. Pepper knew that something odd was going on, but she didn't worry about that too much. She thought about something else.

"I… I don't know."

Cindy, otherwise known as Cinnamon, huffed while trying to make herself comfortable on the cold sidewalk. She looked deeply into Pepper's eyes.

"You passed the first year, right?"

Pepper nodded.

"So, den, why did you quit? You quit your job too. Wat's goin' on?"

Pepper threw away the thin paper her muffin was wrapped in. She tried not to eat much chocolate, to keep her figure. But right now, she didn't care anymore.

"It's… it's complicated."

"Wat's _cawmplicated_? Why's it such a big deal for you to work as a singer, anyway? Steve is throwing a fit, going on and on 'bout finding a replacement!" she leaned over to her friend, worriedly; "You's da only girl willing to sing in dat place. Why'd you leave now?"

Pepper scratched her nose, trying to think of an answer.

"I-I'm thinking of going home."

"Home?" Cindy sounded appalled; "But you's home! We're like fam'ly!"

"I don't want my so-called family involved in this. I'm going back to Texas as soon as possible. I just need to take care of some things."

Cindy was now kneeling in front of her, almost yelling at her.

"Wat is with you's today? You've been all quiet and moody evah since you came back from 'Stralia aftah being with dat hunky-dory Australian Adonis. You made a great film, or so I've heard! Why are you leaving!?"

Suddenly, her eyes widened in a single moment of pure clarity.

"Are… did you two… are you…?"

Pepper nodded, a single tear in her eye. She was looking into the distance, trying not to break down and cry. Cindy gulped, trying to pick her words wisely.

"Are you… sticking with it?"

Pepper shook her head before burying her face in her lap. She didn't make a sound, but instead started making a couple of rhythmic spasms. Cindy put her hand on Pepper's arched back, feeling every jolt coming from her spine. She licked her dry lips.

"I… I'm here for you. If you want me to come with you I can. It's not an easy thing to deal with alone," she comforted her. She herself has done this particular thing twice. It's never easy, but it's better than starting something you are unable to finish.

Suddenly, Pepper gasped loudly, making Cindy shy away. She could hear her friend's muffled cries from the depths of her gray coat she buried her face in.

"It's all my fault. I should've stayed in Bee Cave. I never should've gone to Australia. I lived too much too fast and look what happened!"

Cindy tried to console her, ignoring the judging looks she got from bypassers.

"Don't beat yourself up. It could've happened to anybody!"

"But it happened to me! I…I had a perfectly good life. I could've gone to California to study hard science! I could've been a doctor! I could've been anything I wanted! But I just **had** to be some common bimbo, pointing her camera at everything!"

Cindy looked at her friend, hot tears streaming down her face. It was a strange, unsettling sight. Not knowing what she was doing, she gave her a hug.

"So what are you gonna do now?"

Pepper sighed.

"After I do this… I'm gonna go back home. I… I think I can get some work there. Be with my family and all," she examined her nails, which she was biting lately. They looked terrible, but it didn't stop her from biting them more.

"So then… I guess you just lost a year at film school."

"Guess so."

"Will your folks be mad at you?"

"Probably."

"Look, you can always stay here. You can move in with me if you can't afford to…"

"I don't want to stay here!" Pepper snapped. She suddenly noticed something on her hand. She didn't pay much attention to it before. But now, she was glad that she saw it. It was a sign. A definite sign that she needed to go home.

"What about the Australian guy?"

Pepper looked at her angrily; "If he cared about me, he wouldn't have left me."

She looked at her hand again, smiling.

"You know, besides my family, there has been one man who truly supported everything I do. He made me concentrate on my writing, heck, he showed me the Rolling Stones. He said that I was beautiful every day," she looked at Cindy, with a frown; "And that man sure as hell ain't the Australian guy who left me like this."

She looked at the small chafed ring finger. The base of it was red. She could smell the oily union. She remembered Mikey's proposal. He was such a sweet guy. Pepper was stupid to ignore him. He loved her and she turned him down. Mundy was right. She really was cruel.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, right?" she looked at her red finger, having Cindy grasp her tightly.

"Everyone deserves a second chance. Including me."

**The End**

* * *

**A/N: **And that, my dear readers, is the final installment of my story. I would like to thank all my dear reviewers, especially my idol, who took the time to review every single chapter. You know who you are :)  
Hopefully, this is not the last time I try to write something like this. Either way, thank you for sticking out through the horribly long chapters. Thank you for telling me where I went wrong. And thank you for existing, giving me hope that there are people in this world, who truly appreciate what you do.

I love you guys. I really do.


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